Dairy wonders
by I'm Nova
Summary: Crack. And pwp. And weird body modifications. Or, how the Holmes brothers think they can work around John's denial.
1. Chapter 1

Dairy wonders

 _Disclaimer: I own nothing. A.N. This was inspired by cynicalavocado and armario's collaboration, the smutty piece titled "If you always say no" on AO3. Mind you, I'd suggest to consider it crack even if they deny it – and not read it at all if, like Sherlock, you're sensitive to spelling errors, grammatical blunders and potentially disturbing metaphors. But I have to thank them so very much because they woke up my drugged up, cracky muse. She actually insisted that what I believed would be a 1000 words pwp needed a flimsy excuse for a plot and many more words I wanted to, so this has become a chaptered work. Also, thank you so so much to my friend Chrwythyn for suggesting the title._

"Caring is not an advantage," Mycroft repeated – not for the first time.

"I know," Sherlock growled, glaring at him. It was bad enough that John was away, at that surely superfluous job of his. Did he have to be bothered in his own flat by his smug sibling.

"No you don't, brother mine. Or you're choosing to ignore it, and I'm not sure which hypothesis is worse. You've let yourself care about your doctor. Care far too much," the elder Holmes stated, with clear disappointment in his face.

"I didn't _let_ anything," the sleuth objected, sulkily. He'd tried his best not to fall prey of such unreasonable feelings, especially because John was…John. But like the man who inspired them, they were far too stubborn and refused to be curbed.

"Since things have progressed this far, my assessment of the situation is that, however unreasonable this might look, the only choice for you is to move your relationship forward. I'm concerned about the effect this… _pining_ " – the word was said in clear distaste – "or, worse, somehow losing your flatmate to another partner might have on your sobriety and your general health," Mycroft declared.

"Forward where, exactly? In case your surveillance missed that, brother mine, John Watson is very vocally not gay," the detective bit back, apparently spiteful but really – and evidently to his brother's knowing gaze – eager, almost desperate for big brother to help out, point whatever he might have missed and solve this quandary for him.

"That's the reason I'm here. You know, they say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach," Mycroft remarked, almost airily.

"To _yours_ , certainly," Sherlock replied bitterly.

"Do not scorn popular sayings, little brother. They've been passed through generations for a reason," the elder brother lectured, looking far too pompous for the younger man's taste. "You know, the researchers at Baskerville are looking into a new project," he added, apparently switching subject abruptly. "They've considered the reports about people lost in deserts surviving by drinking their own piss…and they've been inspired to ensure our soldiers can't be starved by the enemy. They want to ensure that men can produce by themselves a nutritious discharge that they can use in times of need. Or, in layman terms, they're looking into turning sperm into something mostly resembling yoghurt."

"I could do without knowing that," his little brother commented, grimacing. Of course. Give Sherlock decomposed, chopped off bodies and he's in his element, but mention sex-related things and he wants nothing to do with it (well, he very much wants if John is involved, but he won't share – and thank God for that!).

"No you really couldn't," Mycroft dissents. "How does John like yoghurt?"

"What are you saying, Mycroft?" the sleuth queries, raising a baffled eyebrow.

"I gave you all the data, little brother. Do you really need me to put them together for you?" the British government taunted, with a hateful smirk.

"You are suggesting…me…to undergo the procedure…to tempt John into sexual relations with me as a way to get my future dairy sexual wonders?" Sherlock deduced, very slowly, as he was incredulous at the absurd plan. Had Mycroft made a list? Because anyone concocting such a plan _had_ to have made use of something recreational.

"It wouldn't make him gay, that. You wouldn't be a normal man anymore. He could admit not to lust, but to gluttony. His deep-seated internalized homo- and biphobia, no doubt a result of his parents' reaction to his sister's coming out, would not be challenged, but worked around. That's how you obtain the best results. I have to admit, he's come a long way in his personal growth and has rationally accepted that 'it's all fine.' But if you want to wait for him to be able to perceive himself as bisexual – and possibly homoromantic – and not balk…I'll just say you've grown way more patient than I knew you as, brother mine," the elder Holmes explained, still smiling.

God help him, but even on drugs (probably) Mycroft was always right…it was unbearable! "Can it be jam?" the consulting detective requested. That would most certainly ensure John's compliance. He occasionally ate yoghurt, too, but not often enough. If they started a relationship, Sherlock had no doubt he'd want sex all the time. Like any sane partner of John Watson, at that.

"I suppose you can cooperate with the researching team. I'll let them know you're going," his brother conceded.


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: I am still not owning anything, and more on crack than ever. Also, this story is dedicated to Chrwythyn (who strangely isn't ashamed of it) for encouraging my mind trips._

Now the problem was how to tell John. 'I'm going back to Baskerville to get genetically modified in hope to entice you into intercourse – or at least oral sex,' would have been honest, but he didn't doubt that it was a case of Too Much Information. No, better to lie. True, John got angry at him when he discovered he'd been lied to, but hopefully his doctorly instincts would kick in and he'd want to check what had been done to Sherlock. The important was to get things started.

"Mycroft gave me a case," the sleuth stated when John came back from work – with takeout (sweet John, always taking care of him even when it was unrequested).

"Good – what's it about?" his flatmate asked, smiling.

"I can't tell," the detective replied simply.

"Well, you'll have to tell me at least something. Like, where are we going?" John asked.

"No, you're misinterpreting, John. I said my brother gave _me_ a case, not us. You're not coming," _yet_ the detective mentally added. "Hopefully, I'll just be away a few days."

"Why can't I come?" the doctor protested immediately.

"You haven't the necessary clearance," the consulting detective explained, hiding a smirk.

"And can't Mycroft make sure I get it?" John asked, already incensed.

"It won't be very dangerous. Nothing you'd enjoy. Just a tiny mind puzzle," Sherlock answered.

"So I'm too stupid to participate. Ta for your honesty, at least. If you get home hurt I'm punching Mycroft, though," his friend bit back, frustrated. He hated the situation. His protectiveness had immediately flared, but once again, he wasn't worthy enough to follow his friend.

The sleuth grinned at him, very pleased. "I count on that." Maybe he should make sure to get some scrape on the way back, just to ensure John kept his word.

"You're not getting out of eating dinner, though," his friend declared, stern.

"Oh, I wasn't trying to," the detective assured, smiling. That detail alone would be enough to let John deduce he was lying about the case, if he was trained like the Holmes brothers, but the man was too busy being pleased for the victory to observe properly.

The following morning, one of Mycroft's cars came to bring Sherlock at Baskerville. It had been the British government's idea, the least he could do was to ensure his brother did not have to drive all the way there.

Sadly, despite Sherlock's insistences it turned out that the human reproductive system really couldn't be geared to produce jam. Jam required hours-long boiling, and the human body was not made to sustain such temperatures.

Also, the scientists there were entirely unreasonable. "Before we start the process to modify you, we have to collect your sperm," they insisted. When the consulting detective, puzzled and a bit shocked, asked why, the research team stated that it was to keep the semen in storage for him, should he later in life feel the unrestrainable urge to reproduce. Standard procedure, they assured. Like freezing a woman's ova before an operation that could render her sterile. Sherlock couldn't really imagine that he'd want a child – not with their hectic lifestyle, and if anything, the baby should be John's, as he had unquestionably more positive characteristics to pass on. But his protests wouldn't be heard – bureaucrats were the most idiotic category in the world – so he had to either consent to that or go home. And now that he hoped to work around John's not-gay declarations, going home unchanged was unimaginable.

So Sherlock had to submit himself to sperm collection. Which wouldn't have been so bad, if he'd just been allowed a quick orgasm in private and to hand over the resulting sample, but no. To make sure that the sample was the amplest possible – whose purpose still failed him – they'd milk him dry (he bet they just wanted to use the term, he'd scoff, if he wasn't so deeply embarrassed).

Prostate stimulation would ensure they'd get all the sperm stored inside him at the time, which – considering the time he last indulged – had to be considerable. It would also entail no orgasm for him. Which was good in a sense, because he didn't want these people giving him an orgasm if they couldn't give him privacy. He only wanted John to give him orgasms.

But it meant, too, that he was trapped in a sterile room and under observation, with his ass stuffed full by a machine for stimulation (the less people touched him the less fingers he'd be forced to remove afterwards), a suction cup with relative hose on his cock for collection, a cock ring to ensure no accidental orgasm could happen because that would force them to interrupt the procedure. And he was just…dribbling…sperm regularly until he wouldn't be able to anymore.

The sleuth tried to escape inside his mind palace, like he'd done during torture in the past, to ensure he did not have to be aware through the supremely humiliating and uncomfortable experience. But he discovered to his consternation that his well ordered palace would not open. There had to be some malfunctioning he'd have to check…afterwards.

So the detective did the only thing he could do. Practical in the extreme, the scientists had only undressed his lower half, so he had his mobile phone with him – as a distraction, it would have to do. More on instinct than out of a conscious decision, he found himself texting Irene Adler. – They're milking me. SH

It was a good thing that Irene was half the world – and a few time zones – away. She spit her coffee – as she was having breakfast – and choked. My, her little virgin had upgraded fast. It wasn't even the milking, as the 'they'. Moresomes already? And willing ones, or he'd be texting his inspector friend. Ignoring all that, she replied – So you *are* able to text me. W (For Woman – it was her automatic signature.) Thank God she wasn't working. She couldn't be distracted during business.

– Obviously. Suggestions? SH was the immediate reply.

– I need details, before advising. Who's with John? W (Ok, fine, she didn't exactly _need_ details. But, as they say, curiosity, thy name is woman.)

– John's not here. Why would he? SH Sherlock blushed more than he already was doing. Irene was not helping as he thought she would.

– I thought he was the only one you'd want to have dinner with. W Now she was getting pissed. Sherlock was out there without his boyfriend and had let some stranger – stranger _s_ – milk him and he hadn't come to her for that? And he dared to text her? Did he want to tease her? That cheek warranted punishment. A harsh one.

– I'm not having dinner! SH Really, did Irene only think about one thing?

– Then explain to me what you're doing, Junior, because I'm a bit lost here. W Honesty, at least. What entailed milking without a sexual undertone? What had the boy gotten himself into now? Was it a case? Undercover maybe?

– It's for science. And you're not helping. You should know how to take a man's mind off…this. SH Really, the sleuth started to be annoyed. She was supposed to be a professional, wasn't she? Why was she proving so useless?

– I don't usually want people to be _distracted_ from what I'm doing to them, but I suppose I can indulge you. W She'd always had a weak spot for Holmes Junior. But – milked for science? Did nobody have a talk with the boy about the birds, the bees and the aim you're supposed to have when your lower half is entailed? She would have done so herself after he'd saved her if she'd known he needed it.

– So? SH The impatience of the consulting detective was palpable. He needed something… anything… to forget what was happening to him.

–Bees dance to communicate the position of flowerbeds to other bees in the hive. You wouldn't expect them to have a language, uh? W If she needed to keep him engaged…well, she did not have a case for him to work on, so spouting random trivia seemed apt.

– More. SH It was commandeering, but Irene couldn't help to smirk to herself. She'd like to hear him say that, right now. Maybe she should call him. But knowing how stubborn he was, he wouldn't answer.

–Honeybees high on cocaine lie, exaggerating both their movements and the food's quality. W There. Give him something he can relate to.

–Someone drugged bees? That's inhuman! SH Irene chuckled. He didn't expect Junior to care for insects.

–For science, love. Does it remind you of someone? W she couldn't help but tease.

–I don't hurt anyone else. Not too much anyway. SH The detective might not have added an emoticon, but the pout was felt loud and clear all the same.

Irene could agree – slipping someone a little something every now and then was very different from getting them addicted. – Of course, dear. Are you enjoying this? W

– It helps. More. SH Really, the boy was always so demanding. She should refrain until he added please, but if she gave him what he wanted now there might be other conversations…

– Bees have a buffer zone between feeding zone and hive, just like serial killers. W She wanted to help him, but didn't necessarily want to wrack her head to do so. She'd followed a random link to an 'interesting facts about bees' page and just pasted what Sherlock would like. Talk about codes, drugs and serial killers and his brain would ignore his body. Which meant someone wasn't making the milking interesting enough, if he had all these brain cells to spare, but she supposed scientists were not professionals.

-It seems it's ended. SH Pity, she thought. It was fun texting him while it lasted.

A moment later, before she could reply, she received a panicked text. – Irene? I'm still hard. *Why* am I still hard? I shouldn't be! SH

–You didn't get an orgasm, so your attributes didn't get the memo that there's no way you can come now and still wait for it. Well, you can come. If you want. It'll just be a dry orgasm. I suggest it. W Irene explained, taking pity on the boy.

–Or? SH The Woman sighed. Why would he need an 'or'? No privacy? Or just his usual stubbornness?

–I suppose you can have a cold shower. Can't you? W

Sherlock never answered to that – which was so rude of him, if you asked Irene. She supposed he might have scrambled to have that shower. But really, see if she helped him through next time! That 'for science' worried her a bit, honestly. What was Junior up to?

At Baskerville, thankfully, subject 12 (aka the world's only consulting detective) was allowed a shower before they'd start the procedure for his upgrade. (If only he'd been able to delete things John-related he wouldn't shudder at the term because of the Doctor Who implications). Subject 12 would have been anesthetized for that, so he wouldn't be aware of the process – which was a mild disappointment, but he didn't strictly need to know like it was done. It wasn't like he wanted to do the same to anyone else. He didn't care about anyone's reproductive system but John's, and he certainly didn't want to mess *that* up.


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: still not owning anything – and decidedly on crack._

"I might have – lied – a little," Sherlock announced, once back at 221B. Never too soon, that.

"About what?" John replied, welcoming him with a fond smile and rather casual about the prospect.

"There was no case, from Mycroft or otherwise. I was indulging in a bit of…body modification," the sleuth admitted, purposefully vague. He needed to thread carefully about this. His friend should be carefully introduced to the idea. He could still balk at the…gayness of that.

John laughed loudly. "You've run away to get a tattoo done? Were you afraid I'd judge? Or were you very particular about the tattoo artist?"

"Don't be an idiot, John. I've not got a tattoo. That'd be beyond dull," the detective scoffed. Everyone nowadays had tattoos. It was enough for him not to.

"Then what? A piercing?" the doctor queried, still smiling despite the insult. He was used to that, after all. It didn't mean that Sherlock didn't appreciate him.

The consulting detective just glared at the banality of it. "Not quite, John. I had an…adjustment made to my reproductive system. More for you than for me, to be honest."

John spluttered and went beet red. "Sher…Sherlock? I don't know what you think, but I thought we kept our…reproductive systems and their functions to each other."

"Oh, no – not like that. Not in any…sexual way," the sleuth hurried to explain. That was the lie he had to sell. "You see, I've noticed that we face being kidnapped quite more often than it should. And while, of course, if only one of us is taken the other will save him, there's always the chance that we're both kidnapped. In that case, Lestrade will probably take _ages_ to save us. You know how he can be. And there's no certainty our kidnappers would feed us – and you always get grumpy when you have to skip meals."

"While I might agree with all of this – I fail to see how a modification to…that could be useful in such a situation," his friend replied slowly, clearly embarrassed. Then he had an intuition, and blurted out, "Oh God, you don't mean to whore yourself for food, do you?"

It was Sherlock's turn to blush fiercely, and he glared. "John!" he yelled, outraged. Really, he could be a junkie…but a whore too? What was John's opinion of him? (Unless that was a fantasy of his. He'd have to investigate it further later for eventual roleplay). "Of course I…wouldn't. No, it is the latest project at Baskerville. They ensured I can produce a rather more…nutritious…sperm, even if its fecundity is practically nihil."

"You have…eatable sperm?" John replied, baffled, enunciating each word slowly and carefully. Whatever the detective thought about repetition, some things needed to be reiterated, in an effort to wrap one's mind around it.

"Quite like yoghurt, I've been informed. Actually, you know, maybe you could…have a taste…I mean, it could be unpleasant to let the first experience of it happen while under the stress of a kidnapping. I suppose I could…get a sample for you in privacy and let you drink it from a glass. Or…we could experiment, so you'd be ready in the case of a kidnapping. You could…get it yourself…anyway you want. Why, for maximum likelihood, you could tie me up," the sleuth proposed. No, no, this was all wrong. He shouldn't be so hesitant – John would balk. He should find a way to sweep John along his project, no matter how mad, as usual. But he was rather unexperienced, and to be honest, rather anxious.

If the detective had dared to properly look at his flatmate, he'd notice John's body taking an unmistakable interest in his proposition – more so when tying had been brought on the table. John would usually be ashamed of it and try anyway to hide it, but Sherlock was asking him to, wasn't he? "So let me get this straight: you want me to tie you up and give you a blowjob?" the doctor croaked, voice rough with desire already. That was a dream come true. And it wasn't even acting gay, was it? It was just…checking the result of a medical experiment and training for future cases. He didn't have to feel as guilty as he had when he'd first learned to 'play the clarinet'.

Sherlock nodded tightly. "Yes. It would also…stop me from buckling, which I read on the web can happen, especially since it would be my first time," he confessed. It was all planned through, really.

"Fine. If you want to…sure. In preparation for our next kidnapping, right?" John agreed, with a little lopsided smirk that tried to hide his nerves. He couldn't believe what he heard. Sherlock had managed to get to his age without receiving a blowjob? Who wouldn't want to have sex with him? (He meant women, of course. And men, if Sherlock was into them – which was fine. Why, he should just have to wink to have all the sex he could want – from anyone, to be honest.)

"Yeah," Sherlock agreed, rather croaky himself, and then let himself be maneuvered. John took a chair from the kitchen – there was little chance that their captors would tie the detective up to an armchair or a sofa, after all. Then he proceeded to secure his genius friend with ropes he knew were in Sherlock's room for escapology training (the sleuth had actually tried to involve him into that once, but John had pointed out he was not even remotely nimble enough). Ankles tied to the outside of the chair's legs, so he was left spread, and wrists bound together behind the backrest.

"Now, I know you can get out of this in no time at all, but today's lesson is not in knots, is it?" the doctor asked, an unconsciously predatory smile on his face.

Once again, Sherlock could only nod, face flushed, not trusting his voice. He was already hard, and while this was good for their intentions, maybe John would not like being faced with…it, after all. If his friend backed away now, the sleuth wasn't sure he would survive the humiliation.

"And while I suppose I should somehow tie myself up too if we're going for the kidnapped scenario, this is just a first check and I'm trying not to make things too difficult for myself, so…" John trailed off, going to his knees between his trapped friend's legs. To make the scene more plausible, though, and maybe tease Sherlock a bit visually, he challenged himself not to use his hands. The fact that they were not tied didn't mean he could cheat. Opening Sherlock's trousers with his mouth was a bit difficult, but never let it be said that Three Continents John Watson was unable to undress a partner, even in the hardest of situations.

Afterwards, he mouthed for a while his friend's cock through his pants – to be honest, John was a bit terrified of what the 'body modifications' might have done to his flatmate/friend/unacknowledged crush's manly bits.

Sherlock was keening, though, unable to contain himself even at John simply lapping him through the soft cotton of his pants (dark blue, the doctor automatically noticed), and the sound went straight to John's own cock ( _no no, don't touch yourself while giving a blowjob…errr, checkup. That's a bit too gay – not to mention unprofessional_ , the army doctor mentally scolded himself).

Impatient, he removed– with his teeth – the annoyingly in the way pants and was treated to his first sight of Sherlock's new cock. Of Sherlock's cock at all, to be precise. However little modesty his flatmate seemed to have, flashing him his intimate parts went beyond even the sleuth's little streak of exhibitionism. It didn't seem different from any regular old cock. All the modification must have been internal. Why, they hadn't even circumcised Sherlock. It was still a very fine cock, long and slender and – right then – very hard and very red.

Unable to help himself, John teased a bit – simply breathing over it, and then kissing and licking the underside, before mercifully taking it into his mouth. Mindful of 'clarinet lessons', after a couple of tries he managed to deepthroat Sherlock. Who, even if this had gone on only for a few minutes, immediately lost it with a wail who could or could not have been a mangling of John's name as soon as his cock hit the back of John's throat.

At this point, the doctor had to swallow or choke – and swallow he did, that was rather the point here. Curious, though, he carefully moved until just the tip of his flatmate's cock was in his mouth, so that he could taste the so called 'nutritious sperm' on his tongue. It wasn't awful. Actually, it tasted very much like plain, low-fat yogurt. Which still wasn't John's favourite taste in the world – but in a pinch, it would do, he supposed.

It wasn't fair, Sherlock would have whined if he could form words. All that time spent being tormented in Baskerville, and now he went off like a firecracker. John would think bad of him. And – oh God, was that a grimace on John's face? If he didn't like the taste, all the trouble the detective had gone through was for nothing. He was supposed to tempt his flatmate's tastebuds, if he couldn't his cock. Speaking of John's cock…it was definitely hard now. The sleuth had no idea why it would be – it contrasted with his friend's too-loud and frequent protestations – but never mind that. It was his occasion!

So, when his friend raised to free him, the sleuth let himself fluidly slip to the floor, as if he had no bones at all (it felt rather like that at the moment, to be fair), and kneeling there nuzzled his beloved's still trapped cock.

John let out a sound that was part groan, part choked whimper, and before he could move away Sherlock had hugged his legs. "Please John, let me – you gave me pleasure, and I just want – I know you don't like men, but a mouth is a mouth, you can close your eyes if it helps, imagine it's someone else, I just want to give you something back," he entreated hurriedly, stumbling over his own words.

"You don't have to," his friend replied, though his voice sounded a bit dazed.

"I know. I want to, John, please," the detective insisted, hoping – if he let John run away and deal with this on his own he was afraid he would never manage to break his resistance down, never be allowed to touch him – and that was as important as being touched. Perhaps more, for some reason he didn't fully understand.

"I'm not like you," the doctor insisted, and whether it pertained to sexual preferences, sperm quality or anything else had no bearing now. Not al all.

"I never asked you to be," Sherlock agreed, anyway. Of course John was not like him, he was better, way better, perfect he could say, but this would never stop the sleuth from being overwhelmed by sheer, aching want.

And that was when John broke, because he had only so much will, and if his reservations were understood and accepted, who was he to deny his friend? Though, imagine it was someone else? Did Sherlock not know how much his lips engendered fantasies of the exact type the doctor was going to have fulfilled now? That magnificent cupid-bow had been designed especially to suck cock – and the blogger would bet any sum that anyone who had met Sherlock, particularly anyone who had ever been subjected to his tongue-lashings, no matter the gender or sexual orientation, had dreamed to give that luscious mouth something better to do. More than once, at that. "Fine," the doctor croaks finally, "whatever you want." As always.

But he was suddenly reminded that he was the more experienced one – Sherlock apparently never was even on the receiving end and it clearly seemed he'd never learned to play clarinet either. Because the detective valiantly tried to suddenly take him all in, and unsurprisingly choked and teared up, bright droplets hanging stubbornly on dark lashes before succumbing to gravity.

It was up to John to gently hold his newly discovered lover's hair and drag him a bit away (he'd take a step back but Sherlock was still hugging his legs like a vice), because evidently his madman thought it was perfectly reasonable to deepthroat him or die trying.

"Just…take what you can. It's still," and here John's instructions were interrupted by a moan, but since he meant to say 'good', that worked. too.

The sleuth looked at him, clearly unconvinced that such an option could be good enough – that _he_ could be good enough – and hummed around his cock (well, at least whatever bit of it John left him – and Sherlock wanted _more_ ) something like "Are you sure?". Though it obviously didn't end up sounding like that, but John was bright in interpreting Sherlock's grunts anyway, and the detective would be damned if he entirely relinquished his prize. The moan this elicited was even deeper and wilder than the first, so Sherlock, encouraged, took a bit more in. Carefully, because apparently his choking was not a turn-on (silly porn! he might have to leave flames to all these misleading videos) but instead made John's doctorly instincts flare up. Which was utterly inconvenient.

Struck by inspiration, Sherlock started singing around his bounty. Well, obviously it turned to humming – he couldn't exactly bellow with his mouth full, could he? He added a few unskilled but enthusiastic licks and sucking, and soon John was the one hollering his pleasure.

Always the considerate lover, the blond tried to give some warning when – minutes later – he was about to orgasm. While grateful for it, Sherlock ignored it – if you don't count humming louder as a reaction. He had wanted to taste John for _ages_ now, and he was certainly not going to retreat. Under what he supposed was the normal taste of sperm, the sleuth could feel a faint aftertaste of tea, and once he'd swallowed whatever John had to offer he grinned like the cat that got the cream.

"That was…amazing, Sherlock," John declared earnestly, and the detective flushed with a different sort of pleasure. He'd just made John happy.

Seeing him a bit unsteady, the detective let his lover's legs go so that he could plop down boneless onto the sofa. "You were fantastic yourself, John," he rumbled, suddenly unsure of etiquette. He wanted to cuddle John more than anything else now, but he knew all too well that was the oxytocin talking, and maybe John wouldn't like it, most probably he wouldn't, indeed. He needed to give his love the chance to pretend this was a fluke, and worm slowly his way into the doctor's acceptance.

"Get down here, you," his friend-turned-lover said, patting the sofa at his side, after intercepting one of Sherlock's pondering looks.

Of course. John was under the effect of oxytocin now, too. The sleuth didn't make him repeat the invitation, and somehow ended up sprawled over most of the couch, one arm holding onto John's middle and his head leaning over his lover's legs.

The doctor started absently caressing his hair, and Sherlock's brain shortcircuited, mind going back to being guided and helped during the blowjob, and if he hadn't come ten minutes ago he'd be getting hard again. Instead, a sound much like a purr (only humans can't purr, but apparently Sherlock was the exception – he would have to check if they did something unscheduled to him at Baskerville) left his throat. Which only encouraged John to pet him more...and before Sherlock realized what was happening, he was asleep. In the middle of the day. Well, he didn't sleep that well at Baskerville (or at all, to be honest).

John grinned fondly at his sleeping friend. God, Sherlock was mad. Entirely insane. And yet…here they were, and John wouldn't rather be anywhere else in the world. And why would he? In his own crazy way his friend was looking out for him all the time. He got his sperm modified just in case they should be held by people incline to starving them. If that was not evidence of caring, of all the kind of feelings Donovan wouldn't believe the sleuth could possibly have, what was it?

They were certainly friends. Actually…friends with benefits now? Or was that meant to be an one-off to ensure John knew what to do in case of kidnapping? (Well, it couldn't be an one-off. John wasn't tied up. They had to do things properly with both of them tied at least – as training, of course. He was pretty sure Sherlock could tie himself up after securing John. After all. the world's only consulting detective was an expert at knots.)

And now the blogger had to stop his train of thought before a certain part of his anatomy started poking Sherlock in the ear. That'd be very much not good and mightily awkward to explain.


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer: I am still not owning a thing. And more than ever I need someone to take away my crack._

He shouldn't have worried about repeating the experience. The day after (Sherlock had been up, using _his_ computer again, not that it was new, most of the night) the list of groceries the sleuth handed him included pineapple juice and cucumbers in large quantities, and John was pretty sure they were not for an experiment. Not one that included microwaving body parts, at least. He gleefully obeyed, and as a spur of the moment inspiration he added some bananas to his cart. Let the fun (hopefully) begin! (Or continue, as it were.)

Well aware of Sherlock's passion…for his experiments, and general impatience, the doctor hoped that an offer would be made soon. But he was wrong – and that was extremely frustrating. The pineapple juice ended, and had to be replaced (once again, on the sleuth's bid) – but life at 221B went on, with cases and crap telly and blogging and not a peep about what happened of a more than friendly nature between them.

John started to wonder if he'd made the wrong assumption – maybe Sherlock was just worried about his vitamin intake – but then he noticed something else. The cucumbers were disappearing, too, without Sherlock ever conspicuously eating them, or using them in any way. So they were a snack…one the detective took great pain to never consume in his friend's presence. Which might strengthen the vitamins theory, at that – if not for the world's only consulting detective's secrecy.

Knowing how Sherlock prided himself on being the best – always, the thought of his breathtaking flatmate secretly training to take him deeper got John instantly hard and frustrated. It was unfair to be denied the show. Didn't the sleuth know that John was an expert at all things sex? He could take over the training – offer good tips. Certainly better than what could be found scouring the internet – half of that was rubbish, anyway.

How to go around to ask that, though? The sleuth would probably be blunt – and choose the worst ever possible timing to make his offer. But John had to set a good example. And frankly, no matter how much of a Casanova he was, the idea of surveying Sherlock while he tried to deepthroat anything without jumping him with very little finesse was daunting. The doctor would – kindly, of course – offer to be experimented on, but if it was for him that his new lover wanted to get better, maybe he'd refuse it – God only knew how stubborn the detective could be – and John would have to guide him through fellating one (or many) of these cucumbers.

Yeah, well, he was going to consider how to offer after he took care of himself. Because, truth be told, if he didn't come right now he might die. Imploded by his own lustful ponderings – so lame. Going shopping could wait five minutes. Thank God that Sherlock had chosen to hid in his bedroom, too (with a cucumber? Who knew) and wouldn't see him getting a hard on by checking what they needed to replace.

It was an unsurprisingly quick wank, and John turned his head and bit a mouthful of pillow (his hand wouldn't cut the sound enough). Because if Sherlock heard his name screamed at the top of his lungs he'd come to see what was wrong. And even if they've already done something together maybe he didn't realize that he was John's top sexual fantasy. Realizing that could startle a man, and have either amazing or tremendous consequences (the blogger so did not need to be mocked for exactly how much he liked his flatmate).

The orgasm was not only satisfactory, but eye-opening. Sherlock had both ignored the bananas John had acquired, to provide a bit of variety (because they weren't thick enough?) and refused to tease his flatmate. But given the precedents, John did not think he was training for anyone else. It was a good thing that his friend loathed most of humanity – it made the doctor way less unsure. So, he just had to show his new lover how fun teasing and flirting could be, perfection of technique notwithstanding.

He might develop a sudden need for a dose of tryptophan to counter the stress living with Sherlock entailed, and bananas had a good content of that. He didn't doubt that the sleuth would retaliate if enough riled up.

With a devilish move, his first test was during a case. In public. They had one of these empty moments the sleuth usually used to feed up his blogger, while abstaining himself, during a days-long investigation, and true to form, the detective proposed to wait in a café until a member of his homeless network would signal to him that the news they were waiting for had been discovered. Or did John prefer a pizzeria? With a grin, his blogger replied, "Very considerate of you. But I've provided my own snack," and took out the banana. "I have one for you too, if you're peckish."

The detective shook his head. Just the sight of the innocent (or not so much) fruit made him go wordless, which John counted as a definite win. Of course, he was not too graphic – they _were_ in public, and they had more or less public personas and he couldn't be caught fellating a fruit on the road if he didn't want nicknames much worse than Robin. He did indulge, though, in tiny, muffled moans of pleasure.

Sherlock's prominent cheekbones were splotched with vivid red, and he glared at his friend. John ignored him, enjoying his treat – which consisted more of the blushing sleuth than his fruit. He might have gone a bit overboard as far as first attempts went, though, because his friend stalked away, leaving him behind without a word.

Honestly, the consulting detective would downright run from this scene (it was not fair for John to act during a case, his inner self wanted to whine) if his movement wasn't impeded by a slight…problem. Thank God for his coat, that hid his shame to everyone. Of course, what was happening was wonderful, because it showed that John was almost certainly interested in a repeat of their shared experience. Or he was way too partial to bananas, that was an option, of course. But for once it was Sherlock who wanted to growl, "Timing, John!" If he botched this case because he was way too distracted he'd blame his blogger.

The case ended quickly, no thanks to John. Once that needed piece of info came, the consulting detective texted Lestrade. For once, the DI could be the one to capture his murderer. Sherlock was not up to any wild chases now, which clearly meant his flatmate was not allowed to follow a trail alone. Wasn't John the one always insisting on back up, after all?

The doctor was surprised by how very effective his little bit of teasing had been (he'd have to face an epic sulk, but it might be worth it, he thought). Only it was not worth it, not at all, because once back home the frustrated sleuth beelined for the shower rather than propositioning him.

A quick wank under the shower was not what had been in Sherlock's plans when he'd upgraded, either, but John teasing him when he didn't like the taste and had far superior oral skills, so the sleuth could't even ensure he'd blow his mind, rather than just his cock, was simply not fair. If the detective didn't prove himself capable enough, after all, his flatmate would soon go back to his boring girlfriends. Sherlock just needed a few additional days before he could go back to Plan Yoghurt. Oral sex was an art more complex to learn than he'd credited it at first.

Only all his well-meaning resolutions melted instantly when he came out of the shower…only to find John once again busy eating a banana. And this time there was no doubting the previous moaning was due merely to partiality for the devil's fruit, because his flatmate – with a mischievous look in his eyes and a challenging raised eyebrow – was practically fellating the fruit with gusto. The sleuth let out a strangled half-moan half-yelp, blushed brightly and – unable to cope – plopped on the sofa and curled up (in a bath towel), back surly against his teasing friend. His cock made a valiant effort to show some interest, but this soon it was simply impossible.

John's warm, hearty laugh only made Sherlock pout harder. "Yeah, you're much better than me at that. But mocking is not kind, you know," the detective huffed.

"Mocking?" his blogger replied, sounding honestly aghast. "There's a difference between mocking and teasing, you know. If anything, I wanted to entice you."

"That worked way too well," the sleuth groused. "But I cannot give as good as I would get, and if I don't you'll soon decide it's not worth it, and…"

"Let me make my own decisions, will you, Sherlock? Besides, you know what they say. Practice makes perfect," John cut in, seductively purring the last sentence.

"You would agree to another possibly sloppy blowjob?" his friend queried, whirling around to face him.

"From these lips of yours?" the blogger rumbled, running a finger across them. He faked pondering for maybe ten seconds, during which the consulting detective stared at him intently, barely breathing. "God yes! Anytime."

"Let me," Sherlock groaned, sliding from the sofa. He didn't have to be perfect for John. (Well, he *wanted* to be perfect for John, but that could wait.) You'd think that his flatmate was the one who had the nutritious sperm, and that the sleuth had been kidnapped and starved for a week. To be fair, he'd _been_ starved for it, and for so long that the little taste from a few days ago only made his hunger sharper instead of slating it.

Just the look in his eyes would have been enough to make John hard if he hadn't been thinking about it for so long, and when the sleuth almost-blindly nuzzled him, he groaned loudly. Sherlock mouthed his covered cock for a few moments, hands going instinctively to caress his beloved's soon-becoming-weak legs.

Then Sherlock almost reverently took his coveted prize out, and decided to demonstrate the effect of his training. He still didn't manage to swallow John's whole cock – but his beloved's mouthwatering member's size was not what you would expect from an otherwise very compact man. Still, he managed to get a good portion of it on first try. Once again, the doctor's hands went to the lovely, soft curls, gentle and loving.

He let the brunet set the pace, and this time, more careful, Sherlock managed not to choke himself on his tasty, tasty morsel. The practice had undoubtedly brought results (and John was secretly even more disappointed about missing it). When, for a few seconds, the sleuth let him slip down his throat, the moan ripped from John's mouth was probably heard by Molly at Bart's, too.

Sherlock grinned around him, and did it again. He tried to take even more, but had to back off. He wanted all of John's, damn it! It was unfair. He still needed more training. Lots more training. But John was enjoying this, which meant he was good for _something_ at least. A wandering hand climbed up his love (inside his head at least he could call him like this)'s leg, slowly, until it met the heavy balls and started playing with them. Lightly, teasing. He barely believed that he was allowed to even brush by such human perfection. (Perfection. Ideal. These were the right words for every inch of John. That Vitruvian Man collage had a point.)

The third time he softly touched them, all the while humming around his beloved's prize, John screamed half his name and came. The fact that the half his love picked was an endearment in French, too, only made him whimper in bliss around the pulsing cock even more.

John's legs finally gave out on him after such a glorious orgasm, and he fell to his knees, and dived for a kiss from his gorgeous…Sherlock. Yeah, his Sherlock was the term that sounded best of all possibilities.

The sleuth moaned inside the kiss. John had wanted him despite all his usual protestations – he'd actually somehow initiated everything – and Sherlock didn't know one could be so happy. Or so hard again so quick, for that matter. Sucking John off had left his 'I cannot possibly get hard again' very disappointed cock in a 'please please please I have never been this needy this quick' state. And the fact that the consulting detective was personifying his own bits was hint enough to his overwrought current state.

His blogger plundered his mouth like a conqueror (mmm…if he closed his eyes he could plunge into a Captain!Watson fantasy, but it would have been such a shame to retreat into his very private, locked up haven of sexual fantasies when he was actually living through one).

Sherlock rutted against him, unable to control himself and too far gone to care (he should test John's semen to see if it contained any aphrodisiacs – it wouldn't surprise him). Which apparently prompted the doctor to caress a sharp cheekbone, with a little moan of his own. And then – oh, such a pity! – to stop the kiss and take a step back. Why would he be so cruel?

"You've been drinking all that pineapple," the doctor declared, his voice little more than a groan. "Don't you think it's time to check if it works as well as everyone claims?"

"You would…" the sleuth trailed off. Obviously, it was what he aimed for, but he thought he would need much more convincing to make his beloved attempt anew. Instead, the blond had been the one who'd practically instigated this from the start.

"You need," John purred, looking at him with smoldering eyes.

The detective could only nod at his point. He needed. Oh, how he needed. And as always, any time he required something, his…friend? (with benefits certainly now, but how would John react to the word love?) offered to provide.

It took only the slightest touch for Sherlock to let himself drop, laying on the sitting room floor (please let no one feel the need to visit them right now). The doctor scooted between his legs, licked his lips (that tongue was going to be the ruin of the younger Holmes, the consulting detective knew that already)…and unveiled his prize, opening the bunched up towel who'd miraculously still not left his lustful partner naked.

Unable to resist the instinct to tease, John blew gently on the hard prick. Let's check every reaction was in working order. After how his favourite madman had messed up with his own reproductive system, you never knew when problems could arise. The fact that everything was fine just after the procedure didn't mean strange aftereffects couldn't become evident later on. Given the soft moan his action elicited and the precum leaking from the tip, sensibility was still perfect.

Not wanting to be cruel, the blogger took the tip in his mouth. Oh – he didn't expect this. Yes, the flavour had definitely changed. It wasn't just less bitter, though. Even the precum tasted exactly like pineapple (given the quantities of juice Sherlock had gone through it wasn't entirely surprising … but it was just one more evidence for his new, odd biology).

Instinctively, John pulled off – to his friend's loud groan of protest - …only to scoop up a bit of it on a finger and smear it across Sherlock's full lips. A tongue flickered out to taste himself, and then to coax his retreating finger inside that wet, hot, apparently still hungry mouth, to be suckled for a moment. The doctor was hungry too, though – hungry for his gorgeous lover – and so he trailed his moist finger away from the cupid bow lips, running it idly on the sleuth's panting body, until both his hands settled back at his partner's hips to stop him from thrusting in abandon while he focused on his prize.

A straining, steel-hard cock, which John regaled with all the tricks his 'clarinet playing' study had taught him. Yes, John Watson had had a good number of partners (of both sexes, he was firmly bi, thank you), but he had never seen anything as lovely as the world's only consulting detective aroused body. Or heard anything as erotic as the broken moans that kept slipping from these perfect lips. It was a surprise that the man had not been recruited in the porn industry, really. (Though the blogger was very, very happy that never happened. He liked being the only one who got to enjoy him.)

If he could have entered Sherlock's mind then, the blond would have laughed at the mess in it. Trying to catalogue every technique, only to find that the 'save' button in his brain was momentarily fried by sheer overwhelming sensation, the frustration at being unable to learn from this and the exquisite pleasure drowning everything else…

John couldn't read minds, but the continuous stream of broken, "God", "John," and "Yes," in various combinations were enough to make him rather smug. And then, finally, his mouth was full of thick, slightly tangy pineapple yoghurt. He should have just swallowed, but – to be honest, pineapple had never been his favourite fruit. Besides, why do that when he could share it with his too often self-starved producer (wasn't that the point of the modification in the first place)?

A rather boneless Sherlock accepted the kiss with a dazed smile on his lips, and looked rather partial to keep laying naked on the floor, maybe for a nap. (And now he was dirty again and would have to shower again later). John gathered him up and laid him on the sofa, settling him with his own British flag pillow and a blanket. He wanted to stay, but he was still afraid that after-sex (or blowjob) cuddling would be deemed 'pointless sentiment' by his unfathomable flatmate.


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer: nothing mine…and if you're still here you know what to expect, so I won't apologise._

John thought about it during good part of the day and all the following night, continuously talking himself in and out of the plan. Apparently, tiredness made for poor impulse control (he should have known). Because while his definitive (he thought) decision had been to cross out such an idea, the first thing out of his mouth in the morning hadn't been, "Tea?" or, "Good morning," but, "I want to experiment on you."

Sherlock had appeared like a particularly mussy haired patrician – no matter how sleepy he looked, a sheet-clad detective always managed to resemble an ancient Roman noble – but at the proposal, he'd perked up and fondly scolded, "Won't me knowing influence the outcome of the experiment? Really, John!"

"No it won't, because we're not measuring your psyche but your new biological responses, and you can't change these. Besides, I need your compliance," the doctor had pointed out, putting on the kettle. Tea would make the discussion easier.

The detective suddenly found deeply entrancing the old scratches on the table. This sounded promising, very promising indeed, but he needed to thread carefully. "By 'new biological responses', you mean the results of my latest…operation," he mumbled, not daring to look up still.

"Yeah, that," John admitted, nodding nervously. "You know, the latest experience clearly showed that your semen production is much more influenced by your diet than the average human. Pineapple didn't just influence your taste slightly, it was almost…overwhelming. So I keep wondering how, you know, different drinks or foods would influence that. For science, of course. I am a doctor, and you have a new and improved version of the human body." The fact that he could deliver this whole speech with a straight face, and without spontaneously combusting out of sheer embarrassment, was evidence of the former army doctor's nerves of steel.

But he'd been subjected so many times to the 'for science, John!' spiel, usually with dangerous and sometimes potentially lethal consequences, that being able to turn tables on Sherlock and bullshit his way into more sex was thrice the satisfaction. The fact that he couldn't just openly admit to want a relationship with him without a silly para-scientific excuse, unless he wanted his parents doubtlessly turning in their graves and sending their ghosts to torment him was rather the incentive, too.

Apparently the only word his flatmate had caught of his speech had been, "Improved?" because he echoed it with a hesitant hope in his voice, and finally looking at the doctor in an effort to figure out if it had been said in sarcasm.

"Yes," John replied simply. The less he talked, the less he risked showing hints of feelings that would make things too awkward to continue. This was a strictly scientific experiment, not the most ridiculous seduction technique ever attempted, because he did not seduce other men. Even his 'clarinet playing' had been no more than drunken fumbling and…yeah, experimenting of a sort.

That made the detective blush for a second, before he shook his head, as if to chase away some annoying thought, and quipped, "You just want an excuse to feed me." Experimenting on his diet required him to actually eat and drink whatever was put in front of him, after all.

His blogger laughed. "I won't say that it's not a bonus," he admitted, eyes twinkling with merriment. He should have devised food-based studies of Sherlock's biology months ago. Maybe then his flatmate would have stopped starving himself. Or he would have to stop experimenting on John, in the interest of fairness, and honestly both possible outcomes were great.

"I'm going to Tesco to prepare for my research. Anything in particular you want?" he offered, smiling.

"I thought that the point was for you to entirely control my diet, John," the sleuth rumbled, shrugging.

"Well, not entirely maybe. And I don't want to inflict on you something you hate…at least at the start," the doctor replied, grinning back.

"You know my tastes, John. I'll trust you," Sherlock answered. Honestly, the only thing he was interested in tasting again – and again, and again – at the moment was his friend…but he wasn't sure how John would welcome a blunt declaration of that ilk.

They somehow managed to create a routine. For science, obviously. When the detective was not on a case, he'd eat and drink whatever his flatmate wanted, with no fuss. John tried to push for this to happen even during investigations, but his now-lover pointed out how his own idle experiments got put on hold then, indulging only in the ones necessary to actually solve the case, and the doctor had to concede. Not without a disappointed sigh, true, but fair was fair.

Many a thing happened in the interest of equity. For example, each time John taste-tested him (that's what they called it, now), Sherlock would then reciprocate. Because he did obtain pleasure, out of the… study…so it was only just that his loved one (not that he'd confessed as much yet) reaped the same benefits, even if its own taste never varied. Not that it mattered, because if interrogated about it – which John was very careful not to – the detective would have eagerly confessed it was his favourite taste in the world.

To analyse how different meals influenced taste, they'd started conducting exams (aka poorly disguised blowjobs) twice a day. John loved to do a first test early in the morning, more often than not (after obtaining his all too willing guinea pig's consent beforehand), acting as an alarm clock for his friend. Waking up to being nuzzled and licked was how Sherlock wanted to wake for the rest of his days, and he dreaded the time John would have obtained all the information he could possibly need and stop doing it. He needed to break down the man's walls of denial before that happened, but could he?

Another test would be done in the afternoon, often in the sitting room, as they were too lazy to move. There was one awkward accident, which made John – on his knees – sputter, go alarmingly red and choke, while their landlady uttered a rather pleased and not-so-embarrassed giggle before leaving. Sherlock, being the recipient of his beloved's attention at the time, had barely noticed what was happening around him. After that, the doctor locked their door religiously before indulging in 'sampling'.

The sleuth's head was full of ideas – like starting with different 'tests' just after a meal and keep at these as frequently as possible until they could pinpoint how much time after a meal the change in taste happened. But he was not the lead scientist in this, so he kept quiet. It wouldn't do to get greedy and possibly upset his friend. Still, it was a fantasy to indulge in and hopefully keep aside for the fateful day John would finally toss their pathetic pseudo-scientific excuses away.

Their scientific zeal did lead to result that they should really have shared with the Baskerville team, if they had actually cared one whit about advancement of human biology. Like the sadly discovered fact that, for some reason, solid food did not influence the reproductive apparatus, while drinks or smoothies did.

This was discovered one unfortunate afternoon. Lunch had been pizza, because a. John had got lazy with his food planning and b. pizza-flavoured sperm might be a rather nightmarish concept on its own but sometimes you need to face the monsters so you can overcome them. Naturally, they'd washed it down with Coca-Cola – tea just didn't fit. Well, the point of the exercise was to taste the results, and most times the doctor had no trouble swallowing whatever may come. At Coca-Cola flavoured yoghurt, though, he drew the line. He should have remembered the yoghurt-based nature (more or less) of what he was experimenting on.

Simply put, there was a reason why you shouldn't mix the two. The flavour was awful, the consistence odd – John would be worried about his friend's health if he didn't know it was their own fault for starting these tests in the first place –, and the blond couldn't help but gag and spit his mouthful. After brushing his teeth to chase away the taste (cleaning up would come…later) he declared to a rather shocked and frowning detective, "That's it. No more than a glass of Coca-Cola for you from now on." That should hopefully be little enough not to affect him. The fact that he was dictating his flatmate's diet in order to enjoy keeping up with their sexual activities somehow escaped John's overactive superego.

The fact that the sleuth nodded eagerly, not even trying to defend his own freedom of choice once their experimentation would be – as it was supposed to, eventually – finished, should have clued John about the man's priorities. Such unusual acquiescence from the normally stubborn detective only made the blogger smile in relief, without wondering too much about its reason.

Since then, John stopped entirely controlling his friend's diet. He did have Sherlock eagerly guzzling a number of different juices, smoothies and drinks. (And somehow managed to still coax him into starving himself less often, as Sherlock had become used to eating more often.)

They'd somehow tacitly stopped enquiring about biology and started working with the intent to create the most scrumptious sperm to ever exist. Or at least, the most to John's taste. If he had to survive on it during kidnappings, it made sense that they would want something they both enjoyed.

After long, intense trials – during which they ended up kissing slowly and sensuously after John had had his taste of the newest concoction, because Sherlock needed to sample it, too – they finally determined their favourite flavour. Lemon.

True, the detective had to drink plenty of lemonade to obtain it, which he didn't enjoy very much at the start. Well, at least he was allowed to put in as much sugar as he liked. But the result…well, the result – which somehow became even more divine when shared through a kiss – was almost identical to sherbet.

The result of tea was good, and chocolate should have been awesome but somehow ended being too sweet for John's taste. The sleuth had always been the one with more of a sweet tooth, to be honest. Most fruit smoothies produced a pleasant taste that neither of them hated nor loved overly much, really, and would probably not be attempted anymore unless their odd diet put them at peril of avitaminosis. John was too careful to allow that to happen, though.

But lemon…seeing him licking his lips eagerly to catch any stray drop after the first time he tasted it had almost got Sherlock hard again, despite it being impossibly soon. Seeing that again was worth all the tangy aftertaste left in his mouth.

Besides, knowledge of the outcome unleashed a pavlovian reaction. Sherlock started to find the taste of lemonade arousing. Which might have possibly become a supremely awkward issue, and given his partner every reason to mock him and call him a freak. That never happened, because – how they quickly discovered – John started to find the sight of him drinking lemonade arousing. Honestly, he'd been half-hard at Sherlock consuming anything since the start of these experiments, but the reach of knowledge didn't seem to have diminished his appetite for the sleuth. Being fully aware of the delicious results only worsened the blogger's issue.

Then came the day the detective had dreaded all along. "I suppose…we know everything about you," John mumbled. He didn't want to say it, but he'd prolonged it as much as he could, and even his friend's experiments eventually came to an end. No matter how much they'd both enjoyed this, and how enthusiastic the sleuth had seemed about it, even offering spontaneously to reciprocate every time, which John had never outright asked for it.

And there was always a whisper in his mind saying that Sherlock had accepted his request out of guilt for turning him into a guinea pig so often, or anything but sheer enthusiasm for their sexual escapades. The fact that the man was such a bloody awesome actor did not help assuage the doctor's mind.

The detective wanted to protest, to say there was so much they did not know still, but if John wasn't interested anymore, he couldn't force him. He knew all too well how it was to get bored with an experiment. Oh well. It was good while it lasted. (And no, he would not cry now). He nodded tightly, not trusting his voice not to shamefully break if he opened his mouth now.

As usual, John gave into the urge to escape before the confrontation became even more awkward and truths he feared were potentially exposed. "I am going to run some errands – do you need anything?" he queried softly.

The sleuth felt a sudden burst of stubborn frustration. He refused to be tossed away like a squeezed fruit. They had enjoyed themselves, had they not? His beloved had never protested whenever he reciprocated – and he had got better! So why give it up now? Feeling daring, he replied, with a purposefully lackadaisical tone, "Lemonade. Or lemons. Whatever you prefer."

His blogger went adorably red. "Do you mean…you want to continue…" He didn't say 'our relationship.' They didn't have a relationship. They…experimented. Dabbled. Trained – they still had to complete proper kidnapping training, how did he forget that? Maybe that was Sherlock wanted. Unable to find the right word, he waved a hand vaguely. The man was a genius – he would understand.

With a deliberate echo of his beloved's words from so long ago, the sleuth eagerly replied, "God, yes!"

"I'll be back soon," John promised – but instead of being awkward, he sauntered away with the biggest grin ever splitting his face.


	6. Chapter 6

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing, of course. Just playing._

John was nothing if not a considerate partner. Until now he'd just sort of gone with the flow. But Sherlock had assured him that their trysts would continue, despite 'experiments' being officially over. Sure, they hadn't still discussed if this made them actually friends with benefits, partners, boyfriends, or whatever else. But to be honest, each time the blogger felt that they should discuss their status, something intervened to sidetrack him.

Only now it wasn't just a new case or an unplanned shift he just had to take, because his colleague got measles from his kids (and the idiot really should have been vaccinated) to stop him from serious talks. The sleuth had apparently decided that horniness was a good countermeasure to boredom (something most people discovered in their teens) and would often do his level best to seduce him when his brain threatened to rip itself apart for lack of a focus.

Not, to be honest, that seducing John required an arduous effort. It seemed that they both had a huge amount of pent-up need from the times of their strictly friendly cohabitation, and now both men were goddamn resolved to make up for every single lost occasion.

Somehow, they still hadn't crossed the bridge and indulged in penetrative sex. John was not gay – though his relationship with the detective started to make him wonder that he might not honestly claim to be straight anymore either. Anyone experimented, but they had passed the experimentation phase, hadn't they? What did the fact that he wanted to continue sucking that beautiful, often citrusy cock off make him? He needed a bit of time and calm to figure himself out, and neither were consistently available in Baker Street.

Every other option, though, was thoroughly explored – and enjoyed. And of course, appealing habits were kept up. Why renounce waking Sherlock up in the most pleasing way? After all, no matter how much of a jam person John was, starting the day with a sherbet-like yogurt was sure to be healthy.

The sounds it drew from his partner were just a bonus. He should record them, in the off-chance he had to go away to a conference. They made the mornings the best part of the day. Even when he knew that they would be indulging in later hour shenaningans, starting the day giving – and then, when Sherlock was more coherent, receiving – pleasure was something John wanted to never have to go without.

Lately, though, he'd been wondering if he should do something. Like, get back to buying pineapple in bulk. For himself, not Sherlock. After all, his…friend? (Still, only?) was always keen on reciprocating, and from the start he'd never even considered to spit. Not that it wasn't hot as hell, but the blogger couldn't help but feeling rather guilty over it. After all, _his_ sperm wasn't the tastiest thing this side of haute cuisine.

True, the sleuth did not openly grimace, or show displeasure in any way. But in their shared spirit of reciprocation, John felt like he should take some measure. Ensure that the experience was as pleasant as possible for both interested parties.

Since medical studies about what he wanted to pursue were somehow scarce (or at least he hadn't managed to come across any yet), the doctor was left – like everyone else – browsing for suggestions from articles about how to best please one's lover, with a less than scientific basis.

One such search initiated him to the world of random products 'guaranteed' to change the taste. Before being faced with the absurd length Sherlock had gone to (in order to ensure their wellbeing during a kidnapping, not to please him, true, but still) he'd never considered there might be something that needed to be modified down there.

But apparently that was a serious concern for lots of people – serious enough to have industries exploit it. Oh well. It might be time for him too to turn to what some firms had to offer, rather than go about making love the old-fashioned way. Still, somehow hesitant, he marked the product that looked best to him, promising himself that he'd order it later.

A long shift had done nothing to dissuade him from tampering with his own taste (like he'd thought might happen, honestly, which was why he hadn't ordered it immediately), so he came home resolved to buy the taste enhancer first thing. After all, Sherlock deserved only the best.

…Only to find a glowering consulting detective, using his computer (of course he was). "What the hell do you think you are doing?" the sleuth hissed by way of welcome.

"Getting back from work?" John quipped back, purposefully annoying his insane flatmate by stating the obvious. What had got the man in a tizzy now?

"You saved the page about this…this…thing!" his sort-of-lover accused, shock rendering him near-wordless, showing him the page about the product he was interested in. He should have known that Sherlock would have checked it, really. "You can't go tampering with yourself!" the sleuth declared, outrage patent in his voice.

Well, that was just rich coming from him. "Can't I? I don't remember you asking permission before a much more heavy 'tampering', to use your words," John replied, deceptively calm.

"I was doing it for your – our – good!" his friend growled, correcting himself quickly and throwing his hands to the air in frustration.

"And I decided to do this because I'm not half as tasty as you, and since you always reciprocate, the least I can do is making it less unpleasant," the blogger explained.

Sherlock sniffed. He actually _sniffed_. "Well, if that was your aim, you could have done me the courtesy to research a bit deeper. Other reviewers say that, taste notwithstanding, using this product caused their partners to gag. I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you."

"Oh. Erm. Sorry. I didn't know, obviously. I would have picked something else, then," John replied, deeply embarrassed. Then again, long and deep research about such topics was not usual for him. He just…went with the flow, usually. And it always served him well in the past.

"About that. Did I ever complain about your taste, that you'd suddenly decide a concoction like this was necessary?" the sleuth queried sternly.

"Well, no, but…it seemed unfair. I mean, I do not taste half as appetizing as you," the blond explained, blushing. Wasn't it obvious? Why was the man making him state such things? It was bloody awkward!

"Only because you don't have my superior taste buds," the consulting detective declared haughtily. Wait, wouldn't superior ones make the taste worse, not better? John's incredulity must have shown on his face, because Sherlock went on to clarify. "Your essence actually has a faint taste of tea. Not anything that your previous lovers would have detected, I'll grant you that. But to me, it always tastes like…home." The slight hesitation meant that the sleuth realized how unscientific that last statement was, and suspected it might be unwelcome.

Honestly, it was the single most endearing thing Three-bloody-continents Watson had ever heard from any of his partners. And they didn't even have a romantic relationship. Well, not officially. They were…fooling around, or whatever.

He should just man up and discuss what they were to each other and where they wanted their relationship to go. But, to be honest, he was too terrified of the possible answers, given his friend's attitude toward sentiment. He'd take what he could get, thank you very much. Given that what he got were the best moments of his life, it seemed insane to upset their current equilibrium.

So, instead, he nodded his acknowledgment and rambled, "Apologies, then. I certainly didn't want to ruin the experience for you. Or to make you feel…exiled. I had no idea…nobody ever said…"

"I always said your previous lovers were subpar, John," the detective quipped, cutting in his rant with a smug smirk.

His blogger smiled back. "That you did. And you're never wrong, are you?" he teased kindly.

"Not about the important things," Sherlock declared, looking appreciatively at his love. John knew perfectly well that he wasn't always right. He knew it since he'd missed Harry's gender, during their first meeting. This didn't mean that when lives hang in the balance (and somehow, their very lives depended from the turn their relationship would take – he knew this in his bones) he had ever been wrong.

"No. not about those. Tea, Sherlock?" the doctor offered. To be honest, he was already tea-addicted like any proper British man. But after such a declarations…well, the drink stopped being about self-comfort and started to threaten to make him blush. He couldn't let that happen!

The detective hummed his assent. And damn it, his flatmate needed to get his mind out of the gutter. The wordless sound now brought to mind some very interesting activity! Then again, it was normal maybe, given what they'd been discussing.

John tried to busy himself in the mindless task of tea-making, until he noticed his partner looking at him rather intently. The words that slipped out of his mouth next were without his higher brain input. "You know, I was looking for writing prompts and tricks, since you always seem to criticize my blog, and I found a series of excuses to indulge in bedroom activities. One was 'to time an egg'. Do you think 'to time tea steeping' would work as well?"

"We can certainly try," Sherlock purred, sliding to his knees. "Three minutes, right?"

The blond could only nod. He hadn't meant to be on the receiving end, honestly, but if the detective was in the mood, he would be totally insane to refuse it. He covertly set a timer (because tea was sacred, and he frankly doubted his flatmate's inner clock).

He shouldn't have doubted him. The sleuth gave him a sultry look, before setting to the task with all the eagerness that somehow never seemed to wane. If John had been capable of higher brain functions, he would have recognized the man for the quick study he was, stealing moves that had taken the army doctor a long time to perfect. As it was, he could only moan broken syllables of his lover's name, loving each kittenish lick, powerful suck and deep vibration reverberating through him.

He held onto the countertop, not daring to bury his hands into luscious curls. It was too much of a risk, with the sudden flame of need in his belly, to take control from his beloved madman. Gone were the times were a too greedy sleuth would repeatedly choke himself on his cock. Nowadays, it was better to let him set the pace. It didn't matter how many times they repeated the experience. With how suddenly wound up John was now, he would end up fucking his face if he clasped these lovely locks, and he couldn't swear for his self-control then.

Only, as always, the detective seemed capable of mind-reading…and stubbornly decided to prove his partner wrong. When wide musician hands grasped shamelessly his jeans-clad bum and _pulled_ , driving his prick deep inside a contracting throat, and Sherlock raised towards him definitely smug and yet hooded eyes, it was no surprise that John lost his last shred of restraint His hips snapped, in an involuntary and irrepressible thrust. And then again.

Sherlock moaned happily around his prize, and John lost it, pleasure washing over him in a powerful tide. The blogger was startled mid his last spurt by the annoying beeping of the timer.

The sleuth swallowed, gave him a last quick, cleansing lick, and sat back on his haunches, a very self-satisfied grin on his face. Suddenly bereft, the doctor tucked himself in and proceeded to remove the tea bags from the teapot. "Now don't tell me you seriously timed things," he grumbled. Sure, his partner apparently knew everything there was to know about blowing him by now, but this was ridiculous.

The sleuth only replied with a vague rumble, and held out a hand. He seemed surprised when John offered his help to get him back to standing, though. He hadn't meant for John to give him his tea and drink it on the floor at his feet, had it? The blogger had to be misinterpreting.


	7. Chapter 7

_Disclaimer: Nothing mine still. Honestly, I didn't think things would go this way, but I've learned not to argue with Sherlock._

The days passed, blending into weeks and more, and while he was certainly happy with what they had – he had obtained more than he ever thought conceivable before Mycroft came forward with his master plan – the detective found himself longing still.

He should be content with whatever John was comfortable offering. When Sherlock proposed to keep up their shenaningans despite the doctor's experiment being done, John agreed. While the sleuth tried his best to let John set the pace, to never ask, it became evident that his friend's reputation about his magnificent prowess as a lover was entirely deserved. Not only his blogger knew both how to tease and please, but he was very adept at realizing when Sherlock _wanted_ , even before his partner sported rather obvious physical cues and/or when he was actively trying to hide it.

Because one 'downside' – though the consulting detective was loath to admit that anything about his relationship with John could be classed as such – was that pretty much his lover's whole _existence_ got the famous boffin unbearably hot under the collar. The result was that a startling number of apparently random acts and even external circumstances could cause the sleuth to suddenly _ache_ , all too often at inconvenient times. So many of his interests were time-sensitive, and couldn't be put on hold to beg for a quick blowjob.

Yes, even if he prided himself in never asking, never initiating, there were moments when he actively considered begging, his pride and old declarations to the Woman be damned. But he always managed to refrain. Not just because it wouldn't befit him. Because not asking meant that John would not be able to say no. The detective wasn't sure he could stand his partner's denial again, after so many thoughtless, crueler denials he had to endure until they finally became involved. ('Not his date'. 'Colleague' – that one was even worse. 'At least I hope not'…and countless others.)

But apparently John was smarter than him in the matters of the flesh, and no matter how hard (wrong word, maybe…or perfect, depending on your point of view) Sherlock tried to mask and ignore his situation, his blogger would notice. The gleam in his partner's eyes at that point made the detective's mouth go drier than the desert, and threatened to make all his concentration vanish in an instant.

More than one time sensitive experiment was thrown to the wind, and a stake out of a suspect deemed deferrable by half an hour. Unless lives were literally hanging in the balance, the smug smile that unerringly followed John's smouldering eyes was the consulting detective's undoing, and at a discreet nod from his lover he would follow.

Not always immediately, though. Sometimes John delighted in drawing the teasing out, he _saw_ and (discreetly, how did he always manage without anyone else of the people present ever the wiser was an unsolvable mystery) winked, even…And immediately found a plausible excuse to do whatever roused Sherlock in the first place again. And again. It drove the sleuth mad with desire.

Surprisingly, despite being…partially distracted…the reward in sight had been known to stimulate the whole of his brain, and create some – in his blogger's words – "insanely awe-inspiring feats of sheer brilliance".

His partner – his kind, sometimes devious, perfect partner – never noticed Sherlock's need and shrugged it off. It could be because they had so much ignored desire to catch up to. It might be because knowing that he'd aroused the (trying to look) frigid consulting detective was very flattering and a turn on in its own right. But – eventually – they'd always end in a somehow private corner, and indulge.

It should be heaven. It wasn't, and for the most ridiculous reason in the world. They were…stuck. The whole point of his body modification was to make himself desirable…as in, literally tasty…for John. And that had been a definite success. Hell, his blogger was practically addicted to the unique flavour.

Both Holmes brothers, though, had assumed that things would develop naturally from there. Progress, so to speak. Seduce him once, and then let his passionate nature take care of the rest. But it seemed that the man's psychological block was stronger than that. Frankly speaking, the consulting detective was fed up with feeling empty.

Sometimes, Sherlock wondered if the unspoken nature of their relationship had something to do with that. They'd pleasured each other countless times, but once the so-called 'experiment' ended, they had just…gone along with the flow, and never discussed what they were to each other.

It seemed the most sensible thing. Not verbalise. Not ask. They both found talking about feelings hard enough, and it was for the best not to say anything that would put John on the spot to admit truths he hadn't entirely accepted about himself still. Or, in the worst possible outcome, have to stop their fun because John wasn't as involved as him, and he wouldn't do anything to 'string him along'. Honourable. If one thing was sure, was that his 'friend' (he could claim the friend, whatever happened) would never do anything to purposefully hurt anyone. Well, anyone who didn't deserve it, at least. No matter how annoying he could be, being used for sex if John was made aware of the magnitude of his feelings and didn't reciprocate them would be a cruel and unusual punishment.

At this point, Sherlock had no idea what to do. His lover had to come forward first, if they were to establish a romantic relationship besides their sexual one. The consulting detective was, frankly, too terrified to lose everything should he press the issue and be rejected. Honestly, such an eventuality would probably kill him.

If John _had_ feelings for him, more than the rather obvious friendship, admiration and – to be his usual, blunt self – lust, he would have said so already, wouldn't he? The man invaded Afghanistan. His flatmate was many things, but he'd never been a coward.

Unless… Unless he thought he would be ill-received, and like Sherlock, he thought the status quo precious enough not to want to upset it. But he couldn't think so, could he? Fine, everyone was an idiot, but John was less of an idiot than most people, and the consulting detective had given him every possible evidence but a vocal one of his own…deep fondness.

Inadvertently, the sleuth slipped into his mind palace to examine the matter. He'd gone and got himself genetically modified to make himself more appealing to his partner, wasn't that obvious? Mind palace John appeared suddenly, to remark softly, "You didn't tell me, you know. You concocted a lie expressly to mislead me about your motivations."

Mind Sherlock pouted. "Did you really expect me to state the truth? We don't talk about feelings, John!" he protested heatedly.

The mental projection of his flatmate nodded, because how else could one react to the truth? Then, undeterred, he added, "That's not exactly true, though. You do talk about feelings, sometimes. Oh, not yours, or mine. Just… in general. And you've never been very encouraging then."

"I've never said anything that wasn't true," the sleuth whined in his mind.

"You've never said anything that you haven't learned from Mycroft – and, fine, cases too, but statistically, there are relationships that do not end in murder, betrayal and/or divorce," Mind John bit back, "but anyway, I trust you, Sherlock. And the whole I hate love spiel is not going to make me want to declare my undying love."

"But the non-verbal cues! Haven't I given you enough of them? Besides, you can't believe that what I said applied to you. You're my exception, always, John. You can't bundle yourself with the likes of Irene."

"Well, you clearly need to be more obvious," his mental blogger concluded.

"You're right. Why are you always right?" Sherlock grumbled. It was a quandary, though. He needed a way to express his love patent enough to overwrite his arrogant proclaims of long ago and subtle enough to be maintain plausible deniability in case his feelings were not reciprocated.

What to do, what to do…Wait, he got it. He needed to be _romantic_. Then his feelings would undoubtedly come through, wouldn't they? God knew that John went for the full trappings of sentiment when he was trying to woo someone. He would recognize that, at least, and given that they were _already_ physically involved, the only thing the consulting detective could be soliciting in such a way would be an emotional connection. Perfectly logic.

Now, romantic _how_? Flowers didn't seem the best choice. Most probably, John would assume they were for an experiment. And even if he was more than obvious about they being a gift, using a dead plant, which would be quickly shriveled, didn't seem to convey the message he wanted.

Taking a page out of John's own technique, he could have attempted with poetry. That would be easy – oh so easy. He had whole essays in his mind about John's jumpers, and lengthy paeans about his smiles. But the 'plausible deniability' requirement stopped him. He still needed to make his point wordlessly, so he could shrug it off if necessary, and getting lyrical about his current friend-with-benefits' hair or eyes would be counterproductive in his situation. He could…later. When ( _if_ , Sherlock, don't get too ahead of yourself) he ever became John's…boyfriend? Significant other?

Of course, there was the traditional jewels option. The preciousness of the material being a good clue to gauge how much value one attached to the recipient, he supposed. This avenue was blocked by a triple objection.

One, the difference in their bank accounts – which none of them cared about one single whit – might be evidenced if the gift was too valuable in a monetary sense. Why, his offer might even be interpreted as an insult rather than a show of sentiment.

Two, John – pardon his French – couldn't give a fuck about material goods. His most prized possessions were awful jumpers and a RAMC teacup that he probably smuggled away from the mess in Afghanistan. The feelings and memories attached, not the cost made the worth of things for him. If unwelcome, some sort of ring or chain or whatever would probably end in the bottom of a drawer or – God forbid – recycled to one girlfriend or another.

Three…to be honest, if the material's current price had to be somehow proportioned to how precious the recipient was to the man offering the gift, there was nothing on Earth rare or valuable enough to come even close to being an adequate representation for the depth of his feelings.

In the end, surfing through a number of websites with the oddest suggestions (some of which are frankly worrying), he decides that something handmade could be the best option. It would show that he cares enough for John to pour effort and care into a gift. Even should it be a bit botched, his friend will appreciate the thought.

Luckily, John's birthday was coming up. A cake was traditional in such an occasion, wasn't it? He usually would leave the chore to Mrs. Hudson – or, if she didn't feel up to it, to Angelo – but this time, he was enthusiastic. How difficult could it be, after all? Cooking was just chemistry. True, he'd never taken an interest in it – he had more interesting activities to indulge in, even if it meant sulking.

For his beloved, though, nothing was too menial or boring. If he could make John smile and – hopefully – understand that the sleuth wanted more – the whole package – it was certainly worth any effort.

Now, what cake to prepare… His extensive reading let him know that a personal touch would be a good idea. Let him feel that no one else would be able to tempt his tastebuds quite the same way. The consulting detective might have taken 'made with love' rather too literally, but he did want them to develop their relationship without losing what they had at present.

The best way to convey that message – given how very much John liked him (his taste, at least) – was, he decided, a lemon yogurt cake. Well, when he said yogurt…he didn't need to explain, certainly. Take the basis of their sexual relationship and add the effort and care that would signify the existence of feelings on his side, beside lust. Perfection.

Despite it being clearly unfair, John had a shift at the surgery on his birthday, and this played well with Sherlock's plan. He would have time to bake his treat before his beloved came home and surprise him.

Honestly, he thought it would be easier. First of all, he discovered that the amount of…ingredient he needed for a proper cake was rather more than he usually produced without John's help. And involving him in the process would make his gift less significant. A bit of research (though many people would have scoffed to the term, considering the websites involved, he would have argued it was the correct one) led him to a decision.

His best bet was edging himself. Repeatedly. He didn't like the idea – honestly, he'd always been more on the instant gratification side of the fence – but for John, he could do that. He found a container, and got started.

He thought it would be…well, not easy, but not a strain. The point of it was mind over matter, wasn't it? He should have mastered the practice long ago. Only he had not – he had never. For a long time, the point had been getting _rid_ of badly-timed urges, not giving into them. And it was a while that John – his saviour and, possibly, his ruin – had trained his body to expect a quite prompt conclusion. He might be teased beforehand, but once things started, nobody was going to get up midway to make a cup of tea or check an experiment.

Instead, getting right on the brink, and just…stopping… Well, Sherlock almost failed the very first time. 'For John' was the only thought that made his hand snap away from fevered flesh. The thought of doing it again…and again… seemed like a torture invented in the deepest pit of hell. He whimpered, unconscious of the instinctive sound. He wished John was home to watch him. No, better not, he would never be able to stop himself from finishing with his lover's smouldering eyes on him.

He had to start again. He was on a deadline, and he'd need time for the actual baking before John came home. Oh, no, no, no…somehow, the chant – he didn't seem able to do this quietly, but thankfully, he didn't seem to have breath enough in his lungs to be too loud – going from his mind to his lips changed to, "John, John, John, John, John…".

He stopped again, and a ragged sob was ripped from his lungs. He was going to die. Well, it was worth it. Convey his love or die trying. That seemed…actually sensible. Not that his higher brain function seemed to be much engaged, at this point – only focusing on the imperative of not losing it.

He tried counting how many times he edged himself – the time before he was forced to stop shortening with each attempt – but it all became a blur, honestly. It might have been five, seven, or twenty-seven, for all he knew.

When he gave up, and let himself be swept up by one of the stronger orgasms he'd ever reached – certainly the most powerful he'd experienced alone -, shouting John's name, he was lucky enough to catch all the result. Luck, because at this point, aiming or any conscious thought was totally gone.

A lazy look at the clock let him know he had ample time still before John was due. Maybe he had time for a nap… Then, one critical assessment of the result of his efforts had him raise on jelly legs to get to the kitchen to weigh his main ingredient. The reading had him convinced the scale was broken.

It was… about half the quantity the recipe called for. He checked the scale, making it weigh again and again things whose weight he already knew. No – it wasn't damaged. He simply wasn't enough. Honestly, he'd amply overestimated the human body if he thought anyone's emission could be that abundant. But the consulting detective had never been the most rational of men whenever his blogger was involved.

Of course, now he had a number of choices. He could resize his cake project. But the point of this was to make some sort of grand gesture to impress John. A muffin wasn't going to cut it. (Besides, Mycroft had taught him that cupcakes cakes were spawned from hell). Or he could nip to the store and buy actual yoghurt to compensate. Absolutely not. That thing had artificial flavours, preservatives and who knew what else. Besides, what if John didn't notice his personal touch, tastebuds numbed by subpar products. What was even the point, then?

Which only left him with…repeat the procedure. He allowed himself a minute or two to cry. Besides, he needed to give himself a while before starting again anyway. If he spent it tearing up nobody was going to know. Oh, and drink some more lemonade. He felt absolutely squeezed dry. Between that, and his tears, he would not be surprised to end up dehydrated.

Looking for help, he once again decided to text the expert. _Have to edge for the second time in an afternoon. Suggestions for survival? SH_

The reply was immediate. _Beg them not to? If you do so prettily enough, they might have mercy. I don't want to hear a word about your pride, Junior. W_

 _Not feasible. There's no them, anyway. SH_ he remarked, annoyed. The other time she wasn't so useless.

 _No them? Who's there then? He better be John, because if you're letting another woman edge you I will be seriously pissed. And if you're gagged, you can still beg with your body, pet. Don't be so unimaginative. W_ Irene texted back. Her eye roll wasn't expressed, thank God – no silly emoticon or anything like that – but it was felt nonetheless.

 _I'm alone. SH_ He needed technical instructions, not stupid suggestions. What part of 'have to' was unclear?

 _Then what's keeping you from stopping, kitten? W_ This time there was an emoticon – the puzzled, thinking one. The sleuth shuddered.

 _I don't need you prying. I needed technical suggestions, but clearly you are not as knowledgeable as you pretend to be. Goodbye. SH_ He thought that reverse psychology would do the trick, but there was no new message. Clearly Irene was offended and decided to leave him to his troubles, No doubt she was currently pouting.

Oh well. That was entirely useless. Besides, he knew what he had to do. He just didn't want to. But for John, he would do anything. He just needed a minute. He set up an alarm clock and allowed himself to distract himself by rereading John's blog. That would give him the strength he needed.

It worked, bless the silly blog. When the beeping broke him out of his reading, he was ready to go again. Though, to be honest, his second session was not something he would be able to describe. He might have developed a fever halfway through it. He whimpered and groaned continuously, vocalizations gone entirely nonverbal, and while he tried to keep the volume down, he wouldn't swear that Mrs. Hudson – and probably the married ones – weren't aware of what he was doing.

He thought his heart might explode by the end of it. But somehow it hadn't – held together by the thought of John, certainly – and he was – finally – ready for his endeavour of love. At this point, the sleuth was terrified of anything going wrong. If he ruined this chance, he would break. Thank god, it turned out that cooking _was_ chemistry, just without the explosions.


	8. Chapter 8

_Disclaimer: obviously, nothing mine. Also, since she's clearly too indulgent, I sent this to my dearest Chrwythyn for Britpick and betaing, and she agreed. All hail to her. Also, someone once complained about it, so fair warning: this chapter has_ _ **rimming**_ _in it._

When John's tread sounded on the stairs, everything was ready. Perfect. Sherlock welcomed him with the biggest, warmest smile of his repertoire, ignoring how exhausted he was. He didn't mention the significance of the day, though. John liked surprises.

John didn't, either. His blogger just kissed him, sweet and tender, before announcing he was off to shower. Sherlock nodded. If he slipped into his own room, because of the frosted glass panel on the door to the bathroom there, no one had to be any the wiser. It was nothing more than a vague outline, and if he wanted to, he could now see John undressed up close and personal. He only needed to say the word.

But the 'spying' (mostly imagining, really) – though probably a bit not good – had been such a delightful, if frankly masochistic, habit, that the sleuth was loath to shake it off. He'd never mentioned it to John. Obviously, his flatmate would have taken exception to it at the start of their relationship. After they'd become involved, he'd been invited inside the shower – more than once. If John wanted him there, he would have said. When John didn't feel like it, well, it wasn't Sherlock's fault that his beloved was addictive – the doctor had proven so even before they were together. A bit of daydreaming couldn't be faulted, certainly. Just in case, though, what his lover didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

Naturally, now it was less of an imagining feat and more of a pleasant memory – mind palace John had long since been updated to be a perfect replica of the beloved original. And Sherlock wasn't up to anything at the moment, strictu sensu. It didn't mean that he couldn't enjoy his love's overwhelming sensuality.

Sherlock sneaked back to the kitchen just in time, so that John wouldn't notice anything. His beloved had decided not to get dressed, and he came out of the bathroom still in bathrobe, rubbing his hair with a towel. The detective didn't mean to initiate anything. He meant to be romantic. But there was a distracting water drop on his lover's collarbone that he just had to remove if he was to think. Doing so with his tongue seemed the foregone option, and he did so before he caught himself.

John chuckled. "Someone's happy to see me," he quipped.

"Always, John," the sleuth rumbled. He'd meant to go out and get John flowers – roses, really – but the baking (and preparations) had taken him more time than he'd imagined, so now there was one of Mrs. Hudson's cyclamen pots on the kitchen table. It was the thought that counted, right?

His blogger inhaled deeply. "Something smells divine. Mrs. Hudson has been up, I see. Are you plant sitting or experimenting on it? It's poisonous, isn't it?" he remarked.

Sherlock pouted. John was missing the point entirely! "Neither. I thought the room needed a bit of colour. Something to liven it up. Cyclamens might not be traditional, but, well…" he babbled, dragging his feet. Ten minutes and he'd already botched it up. He decided to be brave. "I hoped you would like them. They were…well, not exactly for you, I imagine Mrs. Hudson will want them back at some point, but…"

His blogger took pity on him and cut in, "You remember today's my birthday!" He grinned. "And decided to decorate the table. I'm flattered."

Oh no. No, no. Flattered called for a 'but' in the consulting detective's experience. "Of course I did! I remember everything about you, John!" he pointed out. It was insulting to believe otherwise.

"But when I've left the flat," his lover quipped, smiling.

"You never do. You've taken residence inside my mind palace, so even when you are physically absent you're never farther than a thought from me," the detective revealed, with a small smile.

John's smile could have lightened a whole neighbourhood. "Really?" he queried.

Sherlock nodded. Why would he lie? There was nothing he could gain from it.

"Then it's not because I am inconsequential that you've forgotten so many times when I left," the doctor uttered softly.

"It's more like I can't stand being alone so I'd slip inside my mind, where I had you, until you came back," the sleuth admitted hesitantly. That was being a bit too dependent, wasn't it? Hopefully John wouldn't be annoyed.

"That's one of the sweetest things I ever heard," John remarked, beaming at him. "I am so lucky I met you."

"Luck doesn't exist, it's just a concept spread to fool the masses into ignoring their actual probability of success. But if it did, it would be entirely on my side," the detective declared, biting his lips. He was tempted to kiss him again – and again – but he needed to get his head straight (yeah, wrong adjective, but still) and go on with his romancing plan. "Tea?" he offered, affecting nonchalance despite his inner turmoil.

"Yeah, of course, I'm getting to it," his blogger agreed, moving towards the kettle.

"You just sit down," Sherlock prompted, flitting around him. "It's your birthday. I'll pamper you a bit. I hope you trust me to be able to manage tea."

"As long as you don't add anything untoward to it. I'll be really cross if you drug me on my own birthday, Sherlock, this is your only warning," his lover stated, obeying the suggestion anyways.

"Oh for the love – that was _one time_ , John!" the sleuth groaned, frustrated.

"That I know of," the birthday boy pointed out, voice fond despite the subject. Oh, but he was smart. Smarter than he looked. As if the sleuth wasn't enough smitten with the man, he had to go and say something that made him fall even harder, impossible as he'd have sworn it was.

"I promise, it is all untainted and safe for consumption. I'll be partaking of it too, anyway, and I would not if I needed to be unaffected to record the results," the consulting detective sworn, getting busy with the kettle. He'd bought a special, loose leaf tea, which was supposed to be heaven in a cup. After a handful of minutes, a cup was fixed to John's tastes. He'd observed the man long enough to have memorised every detail, from exact seconds of steeping to milk-to-tea ratio.

"Is there any of Mrs. Hudson's baking to go with it? I'm assuming the smell is not just from her popping up with the flowers," his lover inquired, licking his lips. It always drew Sherlock to distraction. That pink, peeking tongue.

"Not Mrs. Hudson's, I'm afraid," the sleuth rectified, smiling bashfully. He took the cake out of the oven with a flourish. "I've been led to believe that a birthday cake was a requirement for one's natal day, so I decided to try my own hand at it."

John looked on the icing and slowly blushed a deep red, "What does it taste like?"

"Lemon. I thought it was your favourite?" the detective replied nonchalantly. He hadn't done it wrong, had he? He couldn't stop the butterflies in his gut.

"It is," the blond man confirmed, with a groan. "And now I'm very happy that Mrs. Hudson or anyone else had nothing to do with this cake." He giggled.

The sleuth giggled back. His lover never failed to warm him – from his soul, he'd swear, no matter how insensate it sounded - in the sweetest, most adorable way possible.

Still, his stomach dropped when John remarked, "This masterpiece lacks just one tiny detail," and got up. Figures that he would have made a mess. He did his best to tamp down the wave of disappointment and panic.

His flatmate came back with a candle from their stash in case of blackout. It was a gift from Mrs. Hudson, who insisted they was a necessity, but with a little wink that betrayed how she was thinking of more romantic uses for them. John perched it on the cake and alighted it. "Can't have a proper birthday cake without a candle. I can't make a wish otherwise."

The detective blushed in shame. How had he forgotten it? It should have been basic. "Which wish did you make?" he queried, eager for any insight, as soon as the candle business was done with.

"I can't say it, or it won't come true. But I am sure you could deduce it," his blogger replied, grinning. "I can't confirm it for you, though. I really really want this to come true."

The consulting detective pouted. He could try deducing it, but as open as John was, he never ceased to surprise him. It was part of why the detective had fallen so hard for him. And knowing what was important to John was paramount to make him happy. Maybe a bit more slipped drugs should be in the doctor's future. Though that would make his love livid…though choice.

The fear running through his mind was derailed by the need to pay attention to the actual, breathing John in front of him. At the very least, it seemed like – candle notwithstanding – he found nothing wrong with the cake and tea mix per se, if his moans were anything to go by.

The sound his beloved emitted, when the just the right amount of sweet concoction hit his palate, were frankly obscene. If Sherlock had hoped this would lead to the irrepressible urge to declare their mutual undying love, though, he was disappointed.

True, it seemed to prompt the doctor to spew superlatives, "You amazing, amazing man," and, "So good to me," spaced out with soft, butterfly kisses, but the terrifying L- word was still not uttered. (With his other partners, John was rather liberal in using it. So, he was consciously restraining himself from using it. But why? Should he despair? No, no. He wasn't going to – not until he'd exhausted all his cards.)

The detective reciprocated, showing more tenderness than enthusiasm, when his lover tried to deepen them. It was rather easy – once John steered them to a bed – to persuade him to go for slow and gentle rather than wild and passionate. A whispered prayer, "Let me worship you, John," was enough to make the birthday boy lapse into an almost dreamy state. He allowed the raven-haired man to taste, tease and nuzzle his way along his beloved's body.

Surely this would help pass the message, too? Sherlock carefully swallowed the words, but each soft touch of fingertips and tongue was meant to convey, "I love you, I love you, I love you". This wasn't their usual, quickly heated release-seeking. It was a simmering, appreciative, truly reverent show of affection.

Judging from the deep moans elicited, John was utterly liking this choice of celebration. He didn't even try to get his partner to hurry up, enjoying the slowly mounting pleasure and – apparently – losing any chance to form coherent words.

The birthday boy would have every right to be demanding, or greedy. But his beloved was – as always – trusting, and open to whatever initiative the sleuth cooked up. How had someone like him decided that a mess like the ex-junkie was worthy of his company, much less of touching him? The bewilderment and devotion clamoured in the detective's mind, mixing with love, each feeling somehow intensifying the others.

No matter how blind his blogger could be to rather obvious clues, he would pick up on _that_ , wouldn't he? Everyone who'd met them since day one had seen how besotted the consulting detective was. Rather, he'd been _too_ noticeable – it was the very reason John ended up so often in the crosshairs, much to his partner's dismay.

The more his beloved literally melted under his hands, the more Sherlock seemed to become keyed up, not just by his own physical arousal, but by sheer awe. He'd received permission to love this man. As long as he kept quiet about it, maybe, leaving everyone with their mental frameworks intact, but still, it was an undeserved grace.

He should have been grateful. And he was, but…not content. He couldn't help wanting more. Always more. Everything. With the blond pliant in his hands, sighing and moaning, the detective decided to push boundaries a bit. It was what he did, after all. Push and run when the backlash was too destructive.

He was already mouthing down there, when he gently – almost imperceptibly – maneuvered his lover to have access to his most secret place, and chanced a kittenish lick there.

John bucked his legs, surprised. The sleuth almost expected him to make a run for it, or start yelling. Instead, apparently the scientist in him had decided that one single instance was not adequate to form an opinion…the blogger relaxed anew and even positioned himself so that his lover would have better access to the once taboo part of him.

Sherlock – properly appreciative of such a privilege – started lapping at the treasure trove in front of him with great enthusiasm. He didn't breach John with anything else, though he ached to – but one thing at a time. When John suddenly came, it surprised both of them.

Afterwards, his beloved pulled him up and murmured, "A little nap before anything else?" The sleuth's aim was to please him in the first place, and the day had been rather harrowing, so he simply nodded and snuggled him.

If the detective thought such a display would work as a love confession, though, he was destined for a rather bitter disappointment. The rest of the day had been charming, but none of them had still approached the matter of feelings.

Indeed, the only result of his 'romantic' gesture was John, in the following days, looking up – not even so secretly – books with recipes to include semen in food or cocktails. It seemed that the only thing his partner had deduced from his display was…what… a new kink? (Also, why would these things even exist when there was only a handful of people at present with tasty ejaculate?)

Tamping down a sulk, he offhandedly mentioned that this was not the way to get him to eat whatever his partner would come up with. Thankfully, he was dismissive enough that at least this one initiative was trashed before even starting. Of course, this led him back to the start… how did one get John Hamish Watson to see the whole picture?


	9. Chapter 9

_Disclaimer: I am still owning only my own insanity._

Since the birthday attempt had failed spectacularly in the 'conveying feelings' department, it was time to pull out the metaphorical big guns. Or rather, be so obvious that even someone blind and deaf would get the hint that there were feelings behind their physical relationship.

True, Sherlock could have just told him outright. It would have been the easiest way to clear any possible misunderstanding. But he was still too terrified to contemplate doing so. John had accepted their relationship – but jumping from 'friends with benefits' to…what? Would his beloved accept the term boyfriends, or was it too juvenile? And if not, what else would apply?

Damn his brain. Either it focused on the minutest details, or it flew apart at the seams, ripped this way and that by too many worries. It didn't matter what his love would agree to call them or not. What should be overriding everything else at the moment was how to convey the depth of his sentiment. Yes, he was drowning in sentiment and planning to admit it.

How far had he come since the stubborn young man shielding himself in an old sociopathy diagnosis (honestly, the doctor who issued that should be disbarred). To be fair, without Mycroft's incentive he wouldn't be at this point, too afraid to be ridiculed and certain he was hopeless anyway. He knew all too well that he didn't deserve John. But if his smarter brother thought that he had a chance, well… Sherlock had long ago learned to trust Mycroft.

Now, about wooing his blogger. Given how the man had reacted after his latest offering, seeing only the sensual side of the matter and – obliviously? or wilfully? that was the crux of the question – ignoring the care and effort put into the baking, being even more obvious was clearly necessary.

Also, even if the sleuth was tempted not to follow his own reasoning, maybe the best option was to plan for something that did not involve their physical relation at all. At least that would erase the chance of John mistaking the point of his actions. Then again, if his beloved reacted unfavorably, that would mean that the detective would not have a last time to treasure among his memories. What to do, what not to do.

He needed to focus. How did one court one's intended? The sleuth had some experience in flirting – but that was always for a case, when his feelings wouldn't get in the way. This would never work in his situation. He would panic – overdo it, or, at the opposite extreme, flounder like a preteen (he did have about as much experience in dealing with love).

Instinct said to learn from John. His beloved had always been a lodestone, when facing feelings – his own or other people's. But Sherlock couldn't very well sit in front of his lover and interrogate him about proper dating technique, could he? He was almost certain that would be a bit not good. And anyway, his lover was liable to misunderstand even worse.

So what? The most cliché option would be flowers. The consulting detective had kept knowledge of the Victorian language of flowers – in the 'codes' room. After all, it wasn't only useful to gush about people. You could have whole arguments in flowers. Send threats in flowers. It was a pity that it had fallen mostly out of use, actually.

But even if John would know about wooing through bouquets, he would probably not have bothered to learn all the meanings. So unless the sleuth went for something truly obvious, like red roses, any message would probably be lost on him.

How would his lover react to a dozen red roses? And in which circumstances should these flowers be presented? Was that maybe too tied to traditional heterosexual courtship? Sherlock should have the answers to all these questions, at his age.

But the simple fact that people hated him as soon as he opened his mouth, unless he was playing a part, had hindered his ability to successfully date. John was the only one – he would forever be the only one for him. He couldn't allow to lose John. He needed to be perfect since the first move. And he couldn't turn anywhere for help.

In his desperation, the sleuth considered even knocking on Mrs. Turner's married ones' door and interrogate them about how they'd attained that. There was the chance that they would purposefully lie to him, though. He wasn't the best behaved neighbour.

What to do, then? Well, when John dated (no matter how much Sherlock wished he could delete it all, no detail about the man will ever leave his brain) a meal was almost always included. True, it was hard to make that special – after all, they already ate together on a regular basis, and went out fairly often, out of necessity, on a stake out or some such.

Then again, there was Angelo. The man truly wanted him happy – out of gratitude, certainly, but he'd be a more than willing accomplice and possible consultant. Nothing had persuaded him that the sleuth wasn't in love with his blogger to this day (smart of him), and he'd definitely want to help. Considering how large the restaurateur's family was, Angelo should know something about securing the affections of one's intended.

So Sherlock timed it perfectly – leaving when John wasn't there, and planning for enough time to discuss their project and have a shower before the doctor came back. It wouldn't do to have the smell of food tip his beloved off about his plotting.

Angelo, as always, greeted him with a toothy grin and a booming welcome. "What can I get you, Sherlock?"

"I'm not here to eat," he retorted, taking a seat anyway, "and could you talk a bit more softly? Not all your patrons need to know our conversation."

"Oh, of course," Angelo replied, in what was more of a stage whisper than an actual soft voice, "case? Do you need to set up something to catch a suspect?"

The sleuth rolled his eyes. "No, no, nothing like that. It's about John," he confessed.

"What about him? I thought your anniversary was still a good while away," the man replied, smiling. He did love a good, romantic love story.

"We don't have an anniversary," the detective pointed out, grimacing.

"What? I know he said, but I thought… I thought he was just, you know, shy. In public. I mean, it was obvious. Half the time I expected one of you to disappear under the table between courses," Angelo babbled, apparently dismayed. Why would he care?

Sherlock blushed brilliantly. Why had the man said so? He needed to romance John, and now that idea would remain nailed in his brain while he was supposed to express his feelings (there was no way he'd be able to delete that). "Ah, no, we're… progressing. I mean, we've recently – very recently – started…exploring, but…he doesn't seem aware that sentiment is involved. On my part, at least, I wouldn't dare presume about him. I'm trying to clue John in, and dinner dates seem to be a popular way of wooing," he revealed, eyes shifting everywhere in clear embarrassment.

The restaurant owner sighed loudly. "Of course, Sherlock. I'm thinking that a couple of pizzas with the toppings spelling, 'He loves you, you dolt,' might do the trick." How could anyone miss how smitten the boys were with each other?

"John is not stupid!" the consulting detective retorted immediately, piqued. Sure, he might call John an idiot on a regular basis – the same way John called him a git. (Did they count as pet names? How did they even end acquiring endearments so misleading for the general public? Maybe that needed to be corrected… But he liked when his beloved sighed and said, "You git," in that soft, fond tone of his…) It didn't mean that anyone else was allowed to disparage his doctor. His degree alone should ensure that no one ever doubted his cleverness.

Angelo immediately raised both arms in surrender, apologising hurriedly, "Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean any offense. Don't get angry, Sherlock, I am sure we'll figure out a way to convey your feelings adequately. No jokes, then. At least no stupid ones – and mine definitely was, sorry again." The detective seemed to have missed the detail that he'd proposed two complementary feelings-revealing meals. It was obvious, after all, that John was just as besotted.

"I'm supposed to be romantic, not rude!" Sherlock pointed out, still frustrated. Why was he forced to state the obvious? Even with his limited knowledge of proper behaviour during one's sentimental entanglements, he knew insulting someone you were attempting to conquer was more than a bit not good. He thought Angelo would be helpful!

What followed was a rather heated debate upon the merit of menu choices (and how to possibly subtly influence the good doctor's), atmosphere enhancing details, and the opportunity to wait for a significant date. But with the sleuth so ridiculously wasting the birthday chance, any other special day (Name Day, Christmas, anniversary of their first meeting) was way too far for his impatient nature to wait. He needed John to know he was loved – with all his soul – _now_ , not in months. He couldn't pretend it was only a matter of physical release for so long. It would be too much waiting for days, even if he was still terrified of his…partner's (that was an acceptable term at the moment, he hoped) potential reaction.

Eventually, an accord was reached. Every detail determined to Sherlock's satisfaction. Angelo was ecstatic and proud of having been involved, and sent him home with a couple of paternal pats on his shoulders that left the consulting detective feeling surprised, despite knowing the man's nature, and rather awkward.

Sherlock went home, showered, spent way too long trying to tame his curls into something artistically tousled rather than a frizzy broadcaster of every butterfly in his stomach, and agonized over picking an attire that would convey that this was no front, no pretense, and certainly no joke. That he was wearing his feelings on his sleeve, as it was.

After much careful pondering, he opted for something that is as far from his usual 'armour' as possible. No tailored suits, but jeans – how long since he had worn them, outside of an undercover case? – a light shirt (not the plum coloured one that would immediately derail John's thoughts towards sex) and a jacket that, while flattering on him, was as old as the jeans. He looked almost like his university self. The one who still hadn't learnt – nor cared – to put on a façade for people. When, if he'd been lucky enough to meet John, he would (possibly…probably) not have indulged in drugs at all.

When his flatmate got home ,the doctor smiled and cheerfully greeted him. A satisfying and not too boring day at the hospital, then; perfect… And then he did a double take, staring at the new (old) sleuth, gaping.

It was good to know that he could surprise his beloved still. Judging from the man's pupils, he approved of the change in style. "I was thinking of eating out today," he announced, smiling back.

"Oh well. You know I would never dream of dissuading you from any whim regarding food," his blogger agreed, before hurriedly adding, "Any whim regarding ingesting it, at least."

"Angelo's, then," Sherlock stated, "whenever you're hungry."

"Sure, give me a moment, I'll pop in the shower," John said. Not unusual for him – but there was a light strain in his voice, that had the sleuth wondering. Was John going to… it shouldn't matter, should it? He'd not even dressed to entice, so if he accidentally did – why would he? he looked casual – maybe having his flatmate deal with it now would ensure he got rid of the urge, and would be receptive to a more sentimental approach afterwards. He shouldn't inquire, otherwise his own head would be stuck thinking libidinous thoughts, while he needed to be clear-headed and open tonight. He was betting his future on it.

Somehow, the detective managed to resist the urge to peek, but still, any intent to be cool and pure during this night was shot to hell as soon as John came out of the shower, flushed and dripping in a fluffy towel. He threw Sherlock a winning smile, and went up to his room to dress. When he came down, he was wearing a leather jacket the consulting had no idea the man owned. "Since apparently today is the day for a change from our usual attire," his blogger remarked, shrugging, in reply to the surprised – shocked, truly – raised eyebrow of his partner. "Problem?"

"No, no, it's… fine. Very fine," the brunet endorsed, his voice surprisingly rough. He needed to stick to the plan. Not jump John right now. He wanted more t physical relationship – but God, how he craved for him at this very moment.

They walked to Angelo's, every dark alley a temptation to ignore his strategy and just go along with what they were used to, by now. No, no. He was tired of having to bite back, "I'm so in love with you," every time it came back to clog his throat. John needed to take the hint one damn time. Truly, his blogger had always blamed his failed relationships on Sherlock, but if he was this blind to people trying to convey they wanted a serious bond, the sleuth was starting to think he'd (secretly happily) claimed a credit that wasn't his.

The Italian man welcomed them as vociferously as ever, and led them to, "Your table, yes?" grinning in a way that would have made obvious that he was part of a plot if he hadn't been so obstinately playing cupid from the start.

This time John only smiled softly back, which was encouraging. Did friends with benefits admit to having a special table? Shouldn't they be more… casual about eating out? The doctor didn't even protest when Angelo brought the nowadays traditional candle – just the opposite, he went so far as to thank the man.

The sleuth's heart skipped a beat. 'Fuck buddies' – he had found the term on the web and hated it instantly – didn't need 'atmosphere', did they? Just like friends didn't. Was his beloved signaling that he was open to acknowledging feelings? That he reciprocated them, maybe?

No, no – he hadn't become the world's only consulting detective by running ahead and assuming that ambiguous signals meant what he'd like them to. Maybe John was just in an unusual good mood and decided that not fighting anymore Angelo's quirks would be easier.

They had a mostly quiet dinner. Sherlock was pondering if he had the best idea of his life or if he was insane, and he should find a way to talk to Angelo and call the whole thing off, his stomach tying in knots.

As for John – there were days when a happy John was a quiet John, enjoying the moment rather than chattering over it. Judging from the half-ravenous half-blissed-out look on him, this was one of these days.

The detective couldn't help but how much of that was due to the meal, and how much to him. After all, such a stare was apparent when his partner threw him a glance over the food.

The doctor's gaze became progressively concerned, though. "For someone who wanted to eat out, you're doing a lot less eating that I'd expect," he remarked softly. True: nerves wouldn't let him swallow more than the tiniest bites.

Sherlock didn't expect the sentence that followed, though. With a rakish smile, his blogger offered, "What is it? Do you want me to feed you?"

The brunet went beet-red, and shook his head vehemently, artfully tousled curls turning into a spooked bird's nest. John chuckled at that, but his eyes were too soft for anyone to take it as mockery.

After that, before his beloved could become more suspicious, the sleuth forced himself to take bigger bites. After all, his plan would enfold at dessert. There was a cake which spelled out SH is in love with JW ready to be brought out.

True, it was a repetition, and usually the detective hated that. But he didn't have the bravery to speak himself, music was most easy to misinterpret, flowers died (not the message he wanted to send) and any over-the-top, public romantic display would have been disastrous if John didn't react well.

Finally, they finished (well, Sherlock mostly finished) their food, and Angelo came forward, a waiter two steps behind him, holding the much-dreaded sweet. The restaurant owner smiled, remarking, "I can't believe that you wouldn't come for your birthday, John! Anyway, here there is a special cake just for you."

As if he'd known (had he known? Could he read it despite it being mostly hidden?) John suddenly stood up and retorted, while buttoning his jacket, "Sorry, Angelo. I'm sure it's delicious, but we've got a text. Case. Can't stay. Lives in the balance, all that. Next time, sorry again."

There had been no text, but Sherlock knew better than to contradict his friend. Throwing an helpless look towards his co-conspirator's frown, the consulting detective rose and prepared to follow his abruptly eager friend.

 _P.S. Yes, I am imagining the boys dressed like in the Pilot episode. I know I am pants at descriptions, sorry._


	10. Chapter 10

_Disclaimer: Nothing mine, of course._

Whatever it was, John was in a hurry. Hurry to get home, thankfully. Sherlock didn't know what he'd do if he was left stranded on the sidewalk, because his 'friend' had suddenly decided he needed to be somewhere (possibly involving someone of the opposite gender). Have a good cry, possibly. (No, of course not, not where Mycroft's cameras were watching...but he would have wanted to.) Maybe he should apologise someday for his attitude at the start of their cohabitation, the mere idea wasn't pleasant at all. Then again, why drag up the past?

His blogger controlled himself, though he was clearly jittery about something (what?), until the door of their house closed behind them. Then he proceeded to snog the living daylights out of his partner against the very same door. _Oh_. That was...good. If this was what made John flee the restaurant, the ball of anxiety inside Sherlock could melt away in a rather loud moan. Mrs. Hudson would almost certainly hear...then again, she would only smile.

Not that Angelo would have minded if they kissed at the table, either. And if any of his clients minded, and dared to voice that, the Italian man would have them removed from his place before they could end the sentence, the sleuth was sure. Didn't John know, too? Maybe he should mention this... in a moment. Whenever they were less busy.

They finally parted, and John was panting against him, loudly. Or were, maybe, Sherlock's senses scrambled to hyperawareness of every single breath and molecule coming from his partner? His blogger finally took a step back and murmured, "Have to get into the flat. Our flat. If I can manage to keep my hands off you that long. Christ, the things you do to me, Sherlock."

The sleuth's hands bunched in his lover's leather jacket and drew him back against his body, for some more kissing. What else did John expect after a declaration like that? Only afterwards – when they were both entirely breathless and giddy – he agreed, "Fine. Home," and actually left a rather stunned John behind when he lithely skirted under and around his lover. The doctor could almost still feel the supple body under his own, holding on for dear life.

This playful attitude and invite to chase was new – and, at the same time, so very customary for them. What would criminals say if when they caught up John went to snog or...shag his companion. Yes, why not shag him, against a wall, under the puzzled look of a felon who thought he was the coveted prey. The mental image was simply so tempting, even if obviously it would never be true – some fantasies were meant to stay as such, and anything that possibly endangered Sherlock's life definitely befell in that category.

John caught his lover – or did the detective allow himself to be caught? – in the sitting room, and they tumbled together over the sofa, in a jumble of limbs and giggles. "You've ruined me," John groaned, when Sherlock nipped at his ear, making him shiver. "I will never be able to have any kind of dessert anymore without getting blindingly hard. You're the only treat I will ever want...sweetie."

"Oh," the consulting detective exhaled, relieved and flattered and oh God yes please, John, "that's all? Pavlovian reflex to the word dessert?" He nuzzled his lover. If John wanted some artisanal cream, that could definitely be arranged – in very short order. The blogger didn't hate him. Not at all.

"Mmm...yes, you trained me well," John admitted, hands running all over his beloved's body, playing with the buttons – opening some, caressing the revealed skin, kissing and licking, and then going further – a button or two, not more. "Any mentions of anything containing sugar and I need to shag you six ways to Sunday," he purred.

"Yes please," Sherlock whimpered, eager and needy and breathless. "Please, John."

That –strangely – stilled his partner for a moment. "Are you...I mean, there's nothing I want more, nothing I wanted more for a long time, but Mycroft said..." he mumbled.

"What would make you happier?" the sleuth asked, and it wanted to sound coy, but he couldn't erase entirely the nuance of anxiety. What if he wasn't adequate and now – now that actual making love finally seemed in his grasp – John turned him away? He felt like his heart could effectively break, physically impossible as it was supposed to be, if that happened.

"The truth," his love replied, with a soft, reassuring kiss on his right shoulder, but voice serious. "Just the truth, please." This was important.

"The truth is – I'm not sure," the consulting detective mumbled, blushing and averting his gaze.

John's mind went immediately to the worst. "Do you suspect you might have deleted it? Possibly a bad experience? Or...while you were high..." he hypothesized, biting his lip.

That riveted Sherlock's eyes back to him, full of fire. "Is that what you think of me? Honestly, John. I might have used, but I had enough sense to protect myself. High or not, anyone who attempted to touch me would have found himself in urgent need of medical attention." His doctor didn't believe that he would let just anyone have his way with him, did he? "Besides, as soon as I open my mouth people start hating me and/or running for the hills, have you forgotten that?" he huffed.

"People are idiots," his blogger appeased, echoing Sherlock's favourite motto. "If it isn't that, how can you be unsure about your virginity, love? Most people tend to notice when _that_ happens," he chuckled.

"The scientists...when they experimented on me, they touched me. Not for their sexual gratification purposes, of course, and certainly never with their cocks, but well, I'm not _entirely_ untouched," the detective explained, blushing. What did it matter to John anyhow?

"That counts as virgin in my book," John declared, kissing reddened cheekbones. "So maybe we should move to the bedroom for your first time? More comfortable? We can get adventurous on the sofa next time."

Oh yes. This was it. His beloved was going to make proper love to him (finally!) and was even planning a 'next time' after that. If the consulting detective moaned – rather loudly – instead of replying, he could be forgiven. He'd dreamed of this for years, and he'd almost lost all hope it would happen. In case that wasn't clear enough, Sherlock nodded fervently and – if a bit reluctantly, because it would mean interrupting physical contact foa few seconds, but the prize was too great – raised from the sofa, leaving behind jacket and shirt. John had opened it almost entirely, and it would be cruel to stay dressed a second longer than necessary.

The sleuth was already trying to kick away shoes and trousers on the way to his room, but his lover's warm voice stilled him. "There's no rush, Sher. I still have to take anything off, and if you get too ahead of me you'll still have to wait."

The detective turned to him and pouted. "Well, get started, then! Don't you think we've waited long enough?" he complained.

"Can't argue with that," John said, chuckling. He gave up his 'Take things as slow as possible' plan and started to undress in a hurry, throwing clothes every which way. Mycroft might have been right, calling his brother a virgin, but very obviously sex did not alarm his beloved.

In the end (the start?) here they were, Sherlock splayed naked on his bed, like the most scrumptious feast, and John a pace behind, grinning, catching effortlessly the lube his lover threw at him. "I want to see you," the sleuth mumbled, almost expecting a rebuff. But more than wanting, it was a need – how could he believe this was really happening otherwise?

"That's fine. I want that too," his lover agreed, taking a second – despite the desire to _hurry up, we've waited *ages*_ – to merely admire the gorgeous man in front of him. Part of him wanted to just enjoy the bliss of such a sight forever. A soft, impatient whine shook him out of his reverie, and he murmured, "Coming."

"Oh, not yet! Not without me," the brunet protested vehemently, opening his legs further in obvious invitation, and John just smiled and nodded.

"Of course not, Sher. Don't worry," he reassured. Well, no sense dillydallying anymore. Besides, he'd need to take his time – whatever they'd done to his love, this was Sherlock's first time, and he intended to make sure his lover was more than ready for it.

John had never been happier about his medical training, because the sounds Sherlock made, when his finger – slow and careful – teased his lover's prostate, were simply otherworldly. Honestly, these alone might have pushed John to orgasm, except that he didn't want to disappoint his eager lover.

The only recognisable words, among groans and whines, were "more," and "John," so the blond – once satisfied that his beloved was properly acclimatised – gave him just that. And again, after a while, until he had three fingers scissoring inside 'his' Sherlock. Where had that adjective come from in his head? Never mind. It fit. _Why_ hadn't they been doing this from the first night? He couldn't remember.

Sherlock wanted to save this forever in his mind. He remembered their previous trysts, if not in as many details as he'd have liked to, after all. But it seemed that love-making (he didn't even have the brainpower to scold himself for how assumptive that word was) fried all his synapses.

The sleuth trembled and mewled and bucked wildly against his lover. Even the word 'more' had now been deleted – hopefully only momentarily – from his brain. Only John's name remained, and he groaned, whimpered and invoked it in a thousand tones. Some part of him wanted to dissolve entirely and be absorbed into his beloved's being. Was he melting? He couldn't be sure.

John, for his part, would later compare what happened to religious rapture. He'd had plenty of sex – some very good sex, just ask his exes – but this...this was something else. Each thrust was a taste of heaven. He always loved his partners' pleasure almost more than his own, and nobody was as responsive as Sherlock. It wasn't just that his lover was vocal. With most of his brain out of commission, all that remained was the detective's heart and soul, and they were plain to see – and all John's.

They might have finished earlier than the expectation the doctor's widespread fame as playboy would have fed. But neither cared. A twin, hoarse groan of each other's name echoed, and forgoing anything else, they just snuggled together and closed their eyes with a last, deep kiss.


	11. Chapter 11

_Disclaimer: not owning a single thing, obviously._

Sherlock woke up, and for a moment he felt sure it had all been a wondrous dream. It wouldn't have been the first time. Only it was warm – uncharacteristically so. Not that he complained, his muscles still felt like molten lead (he never really woke up before a good dose of caffeine) and so he instinctively burrowed towards its source. Only when his so very warm cushion sighed, the sleuth realised it was John.

This was no dream. John had truly taken the initiative and – finally – made love to him. Or…had sex with him. His lover had been eager, passionate, and earth-shatteringly (and mind-palace shatteringly…if only for a while, luckily for Lestrade) wonderful. For all the sexual endeavours they'd got up to in the past weeks, nothing had been so intense. And now… now John was still here, he hadn't retired to his own bedroom, the way he still did when their trysts were under the guise of scientific research.

Fighting the urge to just nuzzle him and fall back asleep, the sleuth blinked, eyes burning, and _observed_. True, he'd seen John asleep before, when either work or drawn-out cases (or a combination of both) made him fall asleep on his chair, on the sofa, or – on one memorable occasion – at the table, during one of their post-case very late dinners, his head inside the plate (thankfully they'd not opted for a warm dish). His blogger had been woken by Sherlock's Homeric laugh – but after watching together no less than six times the video of a kitten falling asleep at his food bowl, the likeness had been too perfect (and adorable) for the detective not to guffaw.

All these times had been uncomfortable for John though – he was literally falling asleep on his feet, and would wake up cranky and possibly stiff. And there had been no occasion to spy him in bed before – soldier's instinct keeping him low-level aware and waking him immediately when the detective entered his room to announce a sudden breakthrough or a new case. This was John properly asleep, not just exhausted. Which was why it was so essential Sherlock record it. There was no certainty he would have another chance, after all.

John was dreaming – it was evident in the somehow shallow breathing and fluttering eyelashes, which was making the sleuth's instinctive desire to count them rather difficult to achieve. It didn't seem to be a nightmare, luckily, because his beloved exhibited no sign of distress. The consulting detective couldn't help but wish he could actually read minds, like his blogger had often joked. Being so close and yet unaware of what his love was feeling was so frustrating.

The detective considered waking his love up. After all, being awakened mid-dream was the best situation for remembering it, and being intimate to the most free and private inner workings of John's brain was so tempting. But the doctor had lost enough sleep on his account since they met. Besides, a study had found out people who woke mid-dream would have a lower feeling of self-worth afterwards. John was the most awesome human being ever born, and there was no way Sherlock would ever do anything which compromised the chance of him realizing that.

Despite all his attempts to stay awake and keep up his close scrutiny, a few minutes later the sleuth's own eyes felt unable to stay open, and he laid his head down back on John's chest, so that his love's heartbeat could lull him back to sleep. It was the most beautiful sound in the universe.

The next time Sherlock came to himself, there was a hand in his curls, gently massaging. "Mmmm?" he mumbled, half in pleasure and half in puzzlement.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," John said, voice rough with sleep. "Sorry, you were too tempting. I couldn't help myself."

Not all of the detective's neurons were functioning yet, but he was conscious enough to recognise the word 'tempting'. "Do you want…something?" he replied, not capable yet of deducing which particular activity his beloved would be in the mood for.

"Right now, just breakfast, though I'd like to keep my options open for later. Are you in the mood for tea or coffee, love?" his blogger replied fondly, a smile in his voice.

Sherlock physically startled, almost throwing John out of the bed. "What did you say?" he asked, voice choked.

"Tea or coffee, Sherlock. What's wrong with you? Usually the question doesn't warrant such an… intense reaction," his beloved repeated slowly, a searching look in his eyes, clearly doctor mode immediately on.

"Not that," the sleuth replied, irritated, waving away the trivial question. "What did you say, _exactly_?" He half-raised on his elbows, peering down at him. Looming over John might not be very effective – the blond long desensitised to people trying to get their way with that trick – but it was still instinct to try.

His blogger frowned, trying to remember the casual sentence. "I said, right now, just breakfast," he started, slowly.

"Not that. The following sentence," the detective cut in, annoyed. Sherlock was tempted to turn his back on him and sulk, to punish him for being purposefully slow (it had to be on purpose!), if the matter wasn't so fundamental.

John frowned harder. That's what he had repeated in the first place, hadn't he? What had spooked Sherlock like that? He unconsciously licked his lips to help focus. "I said, are you in the mood for tea or coffee, love? And I still haven't had an answer to that." He smiled.

"Coffee, if you must, but the sheer fact that you don't seem to notice anything odd in your words is puzzling. I mean, I'm not an expert, but shouldn't your oxytocin levels be back to normal after a whole night? You can't exactly blame them for your lapsus linguae, can you?" Sherlock retorted, petulant, hating that he was breaching the subject but needing the clarity. Why couldn't he let himself enjoy the slip of tongue?

"Uhm…No, it wasn't the oxytocin talking. But it isn't the first time I used a pet name for you, is it? Did you chalk _all_ of them to…hormones?" the doctor wondered, sounding suddenly sad.

Why was John sad? It made no sense. But above all, why did he have to ruin everything every time, the sleuth wondered. No matter how much he loved people, he always hurt them. At least when hurting strangers he didn't regret that – not for more than a moment, at least. His silence was already too long, though. He needed to fix this – now. "Well, yes, I…assumed. I mean, _why_ would you… but you'd never used love, so. I'm sorry. It…took me off guard" he admitted, mumbling a bit.

" _Why_?" his beloved echoed, flabbergasted and still rather heartbroken. It appeared that the detective's poor attempt at fixing had been a total failure. "Do you really mean…you don't know? Or mayhap… would you prefer if it wasn't true?"

"I'm afraid you've lost me there, John. What am I supposed to know?" the consulting detective inquired, physically deflating and slipping down, almost burying himself into the mattress. Had he missed things? Hurt John by missing them? Mycroft was right. He was stupid.

"That I am in love with you, obviously," John said, a somehow tremulous smile on his lips but voice clear. "Did you think… did you want this… thing between us to be just messing around?"

Sherlock didn't reply to that, at all, and the more seconds passed the more John was tempted to scream in sheer frustration. The detective was blinking…again and again. Before his lover gave up and either shouted or shook him, to get a reaction – any reaction – out of him, the sleuth uttered a somehow strangled, wordless cry. Shock and incredulity and elation all rolled into one. He cleared his throat and echoed, awkward, " You…love me?!"

"Yup. I mean…come on, Sherlock, you must have known! What did you think we were?" His beloved retorted, now less heartbroken and more frustrated. The consulting detective practically read minds! Was he expected to believe he'd been too enigmatic for Sherlock Holmes?

"I…wasn't sure. I mean, you don't seem to have very strict standards for bedding people, and this could have been…scientific curiosity on your part, experimentation, or even…gluttony…" the sleuth muttered against his pillow. He'd told himself so many times to take what he could and not yearn for more (uselessly, of course). Not to see things that could be just a reflex of his own heart. And now his blogger was scolding him for being blind and slow. How could he just assume feelings, when fleeting hormones could so easily influence one's attitude?

"Oh. So I'm kind of a slag and more of a hog than Mycroft. Nice to know the good opinion you have of me," John grumbled, sitting on the bed, back to him and feet on the ground – ready to leave. What if he didn't come back?

"No!" Sherlock screamed, throwing himself at him. He hugged his beloved's back in supplication and vehemently shook his head, curls rhythmically caressing John's naked shoulders. "I'm in love with you too," he admitted in a croak, "That's why I found every excuse for your behaviour _but_ love… because if I let myself believe you did have feelings for me, and I turned out to be wrong, it'd _kill_ me, John. Don't go, please!"

With some difficulty, given how tight the detective was holding him, John managed to turn in his embrace. "So…you do love me, too? I know you hate repetition, but just checking I'm not hallucinating," he asked, almost airily.

The sleuth didn't seem to have the breath to answer him properly, so he just nodded wildly.

"We're a pair of idiots, you know? We've loved each other so long, and you tried so hard to doubt me, and right now I was sure all your scenes meant you'd never loved me. Christ, we trust each other with our lives, and we can't imagine being loved. This has to stop now, love," his beloved declared.

Sherlock couldn't help himself. Giddy on feelings (so many feelings, suddenly allowed to be – allowed out of the walls he'd built so carefully for decades), he quipped, "Is that an order, Captain?"

"You bet," John replied. He took advantage of the fact that, without panic to make them rigid, Sherlock's arms had relaxed, to actually get up from the bed, take a step away and then turn and wink. "Coffee in five for his highness."

His lover's elated laugh followed him to the kitchen.


	12. Chapter 12

_Disclaimer: I still don't own a thing, of course. A. N. Last chapter. I'll be sad to see this bit of cracky fun go, but my inspiration has officially run dry. I apologise. ^^''' Hope you enjoy the ending!_

They were finally happy…and Sherlock would forever be ashamed that it took Mycroft's plan to get them there. "Well, that's the proof I'm the smarter one," he could hear his brother saying, a smug, hateful smirk even in his mind palace. As much as it was humiliating, he would forever be grateful to his big brother for that.

Mycroft did it on purpose, certainly. Not to see his sibling happy, but in order to have him owe an infinite number of cases. Because not even working permanently for his brother – as frustrating as it would be – would even begin to make a dent on the debt he felt towards Mycroft. Not unless he managed to find his brother a goldfish…and that would be difficult indeed. His sibling was, to be charitable, picky about it.

The sleuth had to admit the truth. There was no way that, left to their own devices, the two of them would have got around to admitting their feelings. Both too afraid of losing what they already had. But they had – become lovers, in all senses of the word, and Sherlock could scarcely believe it happened. Some days he wondered if he had slipped too deep in his mind palace, months ago, and never woken up. If he had, he never wanted to regain consciousness.

They were blatant, to the sleuth's giddiness. If they were not exactly hiding once they started being physically involved, now John wanted to flaunt their relationship. The very first day after admitting their feelings, his blogger had sat down and written a long, disgustingly (adorably) flowery post about how much he adored Sherlock, which the detective would never admit he'd learned by heart, even if he kept rereading it at least daily.

It finished with "Go on and be envious, if you want, because I'm afraid it's impossible you'll ever be as happy as I am," and of course, their readers took it as an invitation to comment. Many were delighted, thankfully, and some kind-naturedly admitted to being, indeed, a bit envious. The boys were surprised to find out that they didn't need to tear down the few haters, because their friends did them already. Particularly Mrs. Hudson, who had free time in abundance. The sweet old lady would be so cutting that the worst haters deleted their comments, hopefully ashamed of themselves.

What John refused to share, despite the many requests – from both fans and media – was the more private side of their relationship. Seriously, some people downright asked, "Is Sherlock Holmes as brilliant in the sack as in everything else?" The nerve of people. The fact that he didn't punch anyone was a testament to the blogger's self-control.

John tried – with little success, and secret delight – to control his partner, too, because the consulting detective's reactions were unpredictable. If he was in a mood, or didn't like the person enquiring, the detective would deduce aloud *their* sexual proclivities, point out how dull they were (no matter the unfortunate asshole's kink) and snidely ask if they thought the matter was one for sharing. Otherwise, investigating their sex life would evoke a lovely pink blush, and Sherlock would murmur that John found him adequate, as he'd last proved (insert their latest playing occasion and the number of times they'd indulged). Unless his beloved cut in, sternly, reminding everyone of their haste (which he sometimes made up).

It would be ridiculous to share their sex lives, besides, because that would require an encyclopedia. Not just because they kept very busy, but because if the sleuth hated anything with a passion it was routine, so they would indulge in whatever mood took them.

Some days the boys' lovemaking was sweet and slow, to the point that someone – most usually Sherlock, but John had his moments too – would tear up out of sheer emotional overwhelmedness. Some days – especially just after a successful case, high on adrenaline and ecstatic – they were frantic and eager and very, very loud.

And then, of course, there was that week when nothing came in – not a single case, not even a 'please look for my lost cat' – and Sherlock was ready to vibrate out his skin in sheer frustration. Well, John couldn't allow it.

Which was why he sauntered over to his sulking lover, oddly contorted on the sofa in his most "don't talk to me but please someone help" shape, and purred, "You know, love, you promised me something a long time ago, but then never got around to it."

That the consulting detective ignored his tone and retorted petulantly, "I am _not_ going to clean out and reorganise the fridge right now, John, don't be ridiculous," was testament to how upset the man was. He didn't miss details that blatant, usually.

John plopped down in the tiny sliver of free space – left purposefully as hint that his beloved had not entirely lost all hope and could be tempted to drag himself out of his strop with the right enticement – and fondly patted the soft curls. They were simply too close to resist. "I know that, bee. I am not a complete idiot…besides, I've already done that, and if you ever opened our fridge you'd have realized."

The sleuth shot him an alarmed look, coupled with a frown. His blogger hurried to reassure, "I've not binned anything that wasn't originally supposed to be food. Your ears are safe. And properly labelled."

"Sorry I suspected you," the detective mumbled, moving his head from laying against his lover's thigh to right in his lap. "But if it's not that, I can't remember a promise I failed to accomplish."

John gasped loudly and dramatically brought a hand to his chest, faking horrified shock in a way that would have the worst amateur actor too ashamed to leave their dressing room forevermore. "Oh, love, don't tell me you deleted it!"

Sherlock huffed a laugh. Mission accomplished. Then, he casually remarked, "Possibly? It can't have been important." After all, he religiously kept anything that concerned John. So maybe he'd agreed to help someone else? Go some dull place? God, he hoped not. He didn't want to see anyone today. Not unless they were a client, and possibly not even then, if the case wasn't worth interrupting cuddles with John (so, at least a 7.8).

"I did tie you up once…but we never did the required training to ensure I'll be able to feed if we're both restrained. We really should have, you know. It's a miracle we haven't been kidnapped yet. What if when it happens I can't manage to get at you? You don't want me to starve, do you?" the blogger asked conversationally.

All oxygen escaped suddenly the sleuth's lungs in a warm, panting exhale. This sounded…interesting. And necessary. And certainly a better way to spend an afternoon than lying about, even cuddled against John. Speaking of John, his cock was right there, definitely growing interested, and if Sherlock could just get at it -

Before he could follow his instinct, his beloved's hands buried themselves in soft curls, and the detective found himself gently tugged away from his prize, a whine instinctively escaping his throat. "I am very happy that you are in the mood to help with my training. Lead by example, as it is. But remember, if we're to be ready during a case, we need to be restrained for this exercise," John tutted, "I'd suggest you tie me up first and then get yourself bound. As much as I hate to admit it, you're more limber…and your talent to escape handcuffs, chains and the like should allow you to slip inside them, too."

"I suppose," the detective agreed, proud of his lover's praise but privately wondering if he would have any fine motor skills at all when John's words had brought him from the abyss of boredom to the peak of arousal without any stop to organise his mind. He felt lightheaded with desire – hopefully he wouldn't pass out. That would be a bummer. "Preferences? Rope? Handcuffs? Zip-ties? Something else? I'm pretty sure I can find almost anything," he inquired. Take time to collect himself – and let John do the thinking, for once.

"Rope," his lover decided, smiling. "Let's start with a scenario of not too professional kidnappers, if you like."

"How did they catch us?" the detective inquired, needing another moment of pause if he was not to go off like a rocket as soon as he touched John.

"Beginner's luck," John declared, his eyes crinkling in amusement. "Now, if you agree, get around to have us caught, love."

Sherlock nodded wordlessly, and rummaged around in his closet to find the rope he'd bought a week ago for an experiment, before changing his opinion and deeming it a bore, too. Yes, here it was, behind the street police officer costume. Black, strong and not too coarse. It should do very well.

He went back to the sitting room to find that John had brought in an extra chair from the kitchen, and placed it near to the client chair. "I thought that it would be a more likely scenario than finding ourselves tied to an armchair," his beloved remarked with a shrug. "I'm all yours to play with."

The sleuth's mouth went dry at such a declaration. Of course, getting him naked before tying John down would not be a good training. If anyone tried that, no matter how much they appeared to have the upper hand, they would have two enraged detectives to deal with, and definitely end up with at least a few broken bones. Still, temptation was strong.

In the end, Sherlock opted to leave John's trousers alone, when tying his ankles. But he did open his lover's burgundy cardigan and a few buttons of his shirt, ruffling it. It could have happened during a fight, couldn't it? Anyway, John wasn't protesting, not when his fingers busied with his shirt nor when the detective couldn't resist and straddled him, dropping kisses in random spots of naked skin. If his mewls were any indication, John was very enthusiastic indeed.

To his credit, the sleuth managed to rut against him only a couple of times while fastening the ropes to his lover's arms. Otherwise, the fun could have finished before it even started. Finally, with a mournful cry, he left John's very welcoming lap to attach the proper bindings to his own chair and then slip on it. They were well done, if he said so. Of course, he could slither out of them like he'd slithered in, but they were done in a way that blindly struggling would have caused them only to tighten around him. It was the best he could do on his own, and it meant that their supposed captors weren't entirely idiotic.

Sherlock had just flopped against the hard back of his chair, unable to keep proper stance when anticipation was eating at him so cruelly, when John mumbled, "It seems like we're on our own. Our kidnappers have better things to busy themselves with, and it will be awhile before Lestrade finds us, I'm afraid."

Oh! They were actually playacting, were they? The detective had always secretly liked playing a part when undercover. He definitely could get along with that. "If he ever finds us," he snorted. "Unless my brother tips him off, I'm afraid it might be at least a week before his team can see the clues that are staring them in the face, much less follow them."

John chuckled at that. "That bad, uh? Anyway, I…well, I know your no-food-on-cases policy, but personally I'm a bit peckish, so I was wondering if you'd be…you know, opposed." That was exactly how it would happen – they might be shagging like rabbits already, but put them in a strange setting, with risk looming, and John would be hesitant and careful instead of diving for his lover.

Still, Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That's what it was intended for, in the first place. Help yourself, John," he urged, and if his voice was more hoarse than usual, nobody was going to tease him for that. He minutely inclined himself towards his beloved, spreading his legs as much as he could with his ankles bound, and careful not to accidentally tip the chair in his eagerness.

His blogger smiled predatorily, and then managed to bow his chest, despite the ropes, to nuzzle his lover's crotch. "Almost there," he breathed against it, "give me a moment…here." He opened the zip with his teeth, and even before anything happened, Sherlock flushed and exhaled beautifully. Oh, yes.

More biting and nuzzling managed to get the pants out of the way enough for John to take hold of his coveted prize, and elicit a long whine that made him shiver. Like this, he couldn't deepthroat Sherlock, of course. But he could lap at him enthusiastically, suck and hum around the bit he could get at, and judging from the unearthly moans coming from his bound lover, and the way he struggled mindlessly against his bonds to get closer and closer, his technique was flawless.

It was a somehow uncomfortable position for the doctor, true, but he didn't have to strain too long. Whether it was the roleplay (you wouldn't want to indulge too long if really captured, and Sherlock believed in method acting), the relative novelty of it, or maybe he accidentally hit on his lover's kink, it was only a handful of minutes before John's mouth was full of the most mouthwatering dessert in the world.

Just as he was coming down from his own orgasm, near senseless, Sherlock had enough coherency to notice his lover's massive hard on, and whimper, "Fuck me."

"You sure?" John asked, breathless. His love might like the idea in theory, but he could be too sensitive right now.

Sherlock nodded vehemently, slipped nimbly from his bonds and hurried to free his beloved. "Please, please, please," he begged.

Well, who was John to deny him? He insisted they move to the bedroom, since he was pretty sure they would pass out…err, nap afterwards, and the sleuth complied, pliable and content. Sherlock didn't need much preparation, fully welcoming of his John's touch, and somehow managing to be even more sensual when he was just lying there and breathing soft little sighs.

If his boyfriend, after undressing lightning quick, managed only a few thrusts before coming himself, overcome by desire and awe of his amazing partner, it was no wonder. "Love you," he mumbled in the crook of Sherlock's neck, against soft curls.

The hum he received in response was as good as a 'love you, too'. Yep, definitely nap time. John settled, with a last smile against delicious skin.


End file.
